


Crownless Queens and Kneeling Kings

by Sigyn1989



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Gen, One-Sided Attraction, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigyn1989/pseuds/Sigyn1989
Summary: The dragon has three heads, and the Wolves of Winterfell have gathered against the Others for the War for the Dawn. The Lady of Winterfell must tread carefully in two wars if the North and the Starks are to survive. Takes place the last half of Season 7 and ventures much further.





	1. Chapter 1: Catspaw

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfiction in quite awhile (about ten years...). I guess all it takes is one very disturbing storyline and plot holes in a television series to get a person writing again. 
> 
> This fic is more a stress reliever and act of catharsis in regards to all the Season 7 issues revolving around the Winterfell storyline (you know what I'm talking about). I'm hoping my story will give some character development to some of HBO's versions of George's characters.
> 
> I will warn you; this fic is angsty, bittersweet (like George promised us) and violent. I gave a certain rating for a reason. Happy reading!

Ghost came to her room nearly every single night since Castle Black. Like clockwork, he would somehow manage his way onto her bed. She told herself that the only reason she allowed It was that her parents’ bed was much too big for one person. Before they came home again, he’d sleep on the ground next to her or sit outside her tent while she and Jon were rallying forces. At first, she thought Jon was behind this, but now she knew better. Ghost was nowhere to be found during the day, much to Jon’s frustration. Hunting for food. Sleeping. _Getting reacquainted with Home._

It had been a long day. A very long day and she had nearly taken off her mask of composure around her sister.

_Masks._ She looked to her bed; Ghost was already there, his red eyes full of concern. He knew she was shaken to her core, “Stop that, “she tutted, “I’ll be fine; just as soon as I get into my nightgown. It was a cold day. C _older than most_.” Sansa sighed. _First Bran, now Arya. Are the Starks back in name only?_

She slid the Valyrian blade from her cloak’s pocket. The blade was iridescent by firelight. Curved rainbow-like beams, so familiar to Ice. Ice was never used to kill Bran or to threaten me. Ghost’s mammoth frame lounged on her bed, watching her, listening, as she disrobed, “The thing about this blade, Ghost, “she hung her furs on her desk chair “It is not as curved as the Bolton blade.”

She slowly focused on removing her gloves. Slowly, like her breaths. Pacing herself to keep from getting lost, “No. It is not. This blade is meant for slitting throats and wrists. Skinslayer was meant for flaying and peeling.” The gloves now laid on her desk. Her fingers deftly unlaced her heavy black dress in a matter of minutes; no maid or man would ever help her to undress again, “Catspaw’s blade is much too thick; I should know.” _Nothing a Lannister dwarf would own, let alone use._

The thud that came from the dress hitting the floor seemed to echo a heaviness in the air. She gave up putting away her clothes in a neat and organized fashion long ago. Instead, they either laid on top of the clothes chest, draped across the bed or chairs in her room. What needed to be organized was her mind. _Winterfell. The North._

She took the blade from her desk and sat on the foot of the bed, next to her brother’s direwolf. Her arms were bared now, as was her chest; pale, half-moon curved lines, sometimes swirls or jagged lines. Depending on his mood, “Look,” her index finger pointed to one almost in the shape of the Stranger’s Smile, “He would peel it back as far as possible without tearing the skin off. The topmost layer. In that, he excelled. If it weren’t for our dear Maester’s poultices and moontea, I would dead” she paused, her fingers traced the edges of the blade, ever so careful not to cut herself. She gently brushed the blade against her forearm, taking with it soft baby hairs. Ghost’s nose sniffed the top of the blade with the hairs, promptly sneezing.

Her laugh was almost childish, “Isn’t it funny, boy? This blade will excel at grooming me, while Skinslayer left its marks all over my body every night. Never the hands or face though.” She slid the dagger under her pillow, “The face and hands of Winterfell must look pristine just in case Queen Margery visits…Dead Queen Margery.” Cersei had made certain of that. As of all her enemies on her list. _List_ … Ghost smelt of the woods, pine, snow, and the chase of freshly caught prey. His fur was always soft every time she buried her face in his neck, “Thank for always listening. I swear, you’re the only one who listens and the only one I can talk to now.” His ruby eyes stared into her river blue ones; for Jon, Ghost was a comrade and protector.

For Sansa, he was the calming Sun to the storms that raged in her mind at night, “My sweet hero,” Every night before bed, she gave him a soft kiss on his forehead, “Don’t worry, I’ll never tell Jon I called you sweet.” His tongue was slobbery and rough against her cheek, with no hint of Lady’s delicate nature, and yet she did not care; he was the warmth in the cold of Winterfell.

“I think it’s time for bed, don’t you think?” Soon, Sansa was surrounded by the darkness of Winter with furs up to her chin and Ghost’s head resting on her chest, his breathing matching her own.

His ears perked. A quiet growl followed by the soft click of her bedroom door closing. Ghost lifted his head, red eyes glowing. “Lie down, boy,” she cooed, “Do not fret; she will be a Stark again. I promise.” Sansa’s grip on the Catspaw loosened, “Both of them will.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2: The Godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa once went to the Godswood for peace and quiet. Now she finds herself confronted by unlikely visitors.

While Jon was at Winterfell, Sansa spent much of her time in the Godswood away from Littlefinger, and any of the lords and ladies that sought their King’s attention. Now with Jon gone, she was lucky to get an hour alone in the Godswood without someone following her, or finding Bran underneath the great tree with the Maester at his side.

That morning she found herself facing the two very agitated Lords Royce and Glover. “

My Lords,” she smiled softly, making sure her eyes were full of concern for them, “What ails you so that you come to me in the Godswood?”

Lord Glover was first to speak, “Lady Sansa, we apologize for disturbing you, but Lord Royce and I find it imperative that we speak with you, especially since you told several of the lords to come to you if signs of insurrection or rebellion against King Jon arose.”

Lord Royce’s face was the color of a pomegranate, “It has indeed, my lady! It reeks of a certain mocking bird’s shit in the halls of Winterfell!”

“Steady, man! We may be in the Godswood, but that does not mean there aren’t birds or beasts listening in.” Lord Glover’s hand clapped Royce’s shoulder.

She wondered if her sigh could be heard through the whole of Winterfell, “You’ve told me that he approached you the other day to discuss our King’s absence and ‘lack’ of communication. What has Lord Baelish told both of you now?”

Lord Glover’s eyes averted her gaze; he could not look her in the eyes since she and Jon had reclaimed Winterfell.

“Lord Glover, you are a grown man of fifty and seven years, and yet you refused to meet my eyes, the Lady of Winterfell and a woman a nearly a third your age. If you can meet my brother’s gaze, do not hesitate to meet mine. You have dire news, and I need hear of it.”

His eyes were a muddy hazel, his cheeks an embarrassed red, “I apologize, Lady Sansa. I will not do it again. Lord Baelish came to us each alone,” he fidgeted, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets, “He asked us to declare for you, my Lady, and to renounce King Jon as our ruler.”

Snowflakes drifted onto her delicate nose, melting almost immediately. _Even the snow can feel my annoyance_ , “And what, Lord Glover, did Littlefinger offer you in exchange for your allegiance?”

Lord Royce could not be contained, “My daughter! My Randa! She is not yet seventeen, my Lady. Lord Baelish did not consult me at all about this. Lord Glover informed me immediately after the exchange between them.”

The snow came in heavier now, glistening in her auburn hair, “And you, Lord Royce. What did the acting Lord of the Vale offer you?”

Royce straightened his distraught figure, “Oh the usual; money, a marriage between my daughter and a prominent eldest son of a Northern Lord. He promised me that her betrothed would be young and virile. No offense, Robert, but you are not what I expected for my Randa.”

Lord Glover smiled, “If he had made such a promise for my daughter, if she were still living, then I would be just as outraged, Nestor” Lord Glover turned once more to face her, “My lady, Littlefinger’s presence signifies treason! He wants to start a rift between you and your elder brother.”

“I know,” Sansa got up from the Godswood, “Littlefinger has made it quite apparent that he does not thrive in the quiet of the North, and will do anything to cause us harm,” her gaze was stone, “My Lords, this nuisance shall be put to an end soon. I give you my word as a Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and acting ruler in our King’s absence. Have patience, and we will soon be rid of him.”

 


	3. Chapter 3: The Three-Eyed Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell meets with the Three-Eyed Raven and a semblance of what once was and what will be begins to take root.

The maester’s eyes were repentant, his hands shoved into his robes, “My lady, if I had known about his intentions, I would never have…it is besides the matter of what his intentions were.  As a maester, I should only be reporting and carrying out tasks directly given to me by you.  I…I apologize.”

“He has a way of persuading even the brightest and cleverest of us, Maester.  I appreciate your honesty and telling me.” _Although I would’ve preferred this news days sooner._ Her eyes shifted to Bran in his wheelchair, his brown eyes ever intent on the fireplace. _He’s seeing.  Watching something_ , “Maester, thank you for telling me about these recent events.  Also, your skills as a craftsman are amazing; Bran’s chair is proof of that daily.”

The older man blushed, “My lady, you are too kind.”

“I only speak the truth.  If not for that chair, my brother’s mobility would be severely limited,” Her eyes met the maester’s once more, “Now, if you will excuse me, good sir; I have need to speak with my brother.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa! Uh, shall I close the door?”

“It would be best, I think.  Thank you.” Her brother’s room was spare and lacking in furniture; he had only the fireplace, his bed, his wheelchair, and a guest chair. She had tried to put a desk in his room for writing, but he had protested; the Three-Eyed Raven did not need a desk, merely the Godswood and a good fire.  At the very least he allowed her to make sure that the bed was full of furs and pillows, and that the guest chair was relatively comfortable should he ever wish to sit in it.

The chair was covered in a grey bear’s fur, a stark contrast to her dress when she sat down next to him, “Bran? Are you there?”

No response.  The fire seemed to consume his eyes, if not his very soul.  His hand was cold. Why was he not wearing the gloves she made him? “Bran!”

The fog from his eyes cleared from his dream, “Sansa. You are here.”

 _Has your soul as well as your name been consumed by the cold, dearest Bran? It has taken the best of you in its icy grasp_ , She wanted to cry for him, hold him close.  But it did not melt him the last time, “Yes, I am.”

He nodded slowly, “We need to speak.”

“That we do, Bran. Desperately.” She tried to warm his cold hands in her warmed gloved ones, “Why are you not wearing your gloves?”

His eyes were as vacant and empty as his voice, “She means to kill you. Ghost prevents her from doing so and---

Her gloved hand brushed his sunken cheek, “I know, sweetling, I know.”

Was it a flicker of sadness that shown in his eyes, “Yesterday morning, and last night.”

Her sigh was more defeated than she had wanted it to be, “I thought it was a game yesterday; I thought she knew Littlefinger was watching. She’s never wanted to wear dresses, pay her courtesies, or be a lady.  Arya was the one fighting and playing with swords and bows and arrows.  Do you remember? Running around and making friends with everyone.  She wanted to be a soldier, a knight.  She would run wild if mother didn’t catch her and father didn’t tell.”

 _Was that a smile, my sweet Bran?_ “She was always better than me at archery and swordplay….” just like the winter’s morning fog, it had gone, “Sansa?”

“Yes, Bran?”

“She sees what she wants to see.  Hot Pie told her that Jon was in Winterfell. She was going only to see him; Jon was the only part of her that made her _feel human again._ Jon was not here.  Just you and you---“

“I am not Jon.  I’m not the older brother that gave her needle or told her stories about wars and soldiers and warrior queens named Nymeria.  To her, I am still the mean older sister who called her ‘Arya Horse Face’, loved Joffrey, and killed our father…”

Bran’s grasp on her hand was surprisingly firm, “You didn’t kill him, Sansa; Mother, Maester Luwin, Robb; they all knew those were Cersei’s words, not yours.  Arya is seeing what she wants to see; she sees you and Littlefinger together.  She saw Lords Glover and Royce talking with him in the training yard, she saw him talk to a serving girl, she saw the Maester give him your letter.  She does not see you as someone Jon would trust the North to, because…to Arya, you are still the mean older sister who wanted nothing more than to dress like a Southron Lady and be Joffrey’s queen.  Everything is in black and white, no in between.  Her loyalty is to Jon, because of he is her only tie to this place.  Jon is not here, therefore---“

“Jon is in danger, and everyone is suspect of treason.  Especially me. Littlefinger has been using her distrust of him to his advantage…Oh, Bran!,” Sansa’s forehead furrowed, “How do I convince her? How do I make her see the real threat?”

“You don’t. _We_ do. _Together._ This is how it must always be done.” _Where will we go…_

She smirked, “We’ll need another chair, though. Maybe a table with some food, too.”


	4. Chapter 4: No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The She-Wolf of Winterfell finds herself cornered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next will be mostly in Arya's POV

_Two against one._ _Of course they would find a way to sway Bran_. Arya’s legs were lazily crossed, her fingers relaxed but dangerously close to Needle. _Just like Robb and Jon. I must be as brave as my older brothers, if not more so._

Sansa’s eyes were full of intent and focused on her own. _A staring contest, sister? After our previous encounters? I think not. Staring never killed a man._

“Arya, the cook has brought up some mulled wine and bread for us.  You should have some; you looked a bit peaked,” Her voice was kind, almost like their lady mother’s. _No. Stop it. She is trying to win you over._

“I think not, Lady Stark.” _Whatever is in it, I will not partake._

“Very well, then.  Bran?”

“Yes…please.  Bread too. I’ve not eaten since early this morning.”

Sansa always picked apart her bread, dipping into the wine.  Now, she ate her bread between gulps of wine.  Bran nibbled his piece sparingly.  One sip from the wine.

His eyes met hers, “Arya?”

She smiled at him, as sweet as she could allow, “Yes?”

“It’s not poisoned, as you can see.  Please, I know you’re hungry,” she paled at his remarks.

“I would never—“

“But you did think it. Believed it.  Convinced yourself that Sansa had poisoned the wine.  You are sisters. _My sisters_.” His words were solemn, sad emptiness swallowed his eyes.

Sansa’s gloved hand grasped hers before she could pull away, “Arya, we’ve both been through so much; we cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves.  We are Starks of Winterfell and we do not attack our own kind.  We band together against those who would harm or betray us.  Winter is here, sweet sister, and the dead come with it.” Those eyes, _Mother’s eyes_ , were filled with tears.

 _No more; Catelyn Stark is dead._ Arya’s flew from her sister’s grasp and onto Needle’s hilt, “ _You_ killed father. Your love of Lannisters killed Mother and Robb too. I know it!” she hissed.

She never knew her mother’s eyes to have such a coldness to it, nor her voice. _Father_ , “Is that what you tell yourself every night knowing that you were Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer?”

“No! Stop it!”

Bran’s hands were cold, “You were his cupbearer; you saw Tywin and Littlefinger talking together at Harranhal.  You knew they were conspiring, and yet you let them live.”

“Bran…I was young..scared.” When did she get up from the table? Needle felt cool against her hands.

“Just a child; only a little older than Lyanna Mormont,” Mother’s…no.  Sansa’s words cut her.  _The same words I spoke the other day_.

Sansa’s gloves were off. Her hands were warm, one cupping her face, the other hand on Needle’s hilt, “We were children, unaware of the consequences of our decisions.  We are older now.  We know we cannot afford to make any more rash actions.” Sansa’s lips were the softest feathers against her forehead, “Put away your sword, Arya. The enemy we fight uses weapons of a sharper sort.”

Arya’s howls echoed through the hallways, sending shivers up and down Sansa’s back.

Bran’s voice cut through them, “She’ll be back in an hour; she’s using Needle to hack away at a tree.  Apparently, stabbing and hacking at things calms her.”


	5. Chapter 5: The Truth of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No One. The She-Wolf. Arya Stark of Winterfell. A girl must know where her loyalties lie; with the pack she imagined or the pack in front of her.

Needle’s point was sticky with sap and resin. _It was never meant for hacking and slicing. Only to stick ‘em with the pointy end._   No matter how many times she tried, the tree would not give into her stabs and slashes.  _This tree won’t even let me grieve for my father and mother.  Or Robb._ The snow fell steady, a light dusting covered her.  Even through her gloves she felt the cold.  She couldn’t remember a time so cold before. _Winter is here, sweet sister, and the dead come with it_. What did she mean? Did Bran finally convince their older sister that Old Nan’s stories were true? Still, her running into Nymeria was no coincidence or Hot Pie. Needle twanged against the cold tree trunk.  Cold and sticky.

The sight of Sansa’s scars haunted her. _Skinslayer. Catspaw._ _I am a fool._   Needle was stuck in the tree, the sap nearly frozen. She had to use both hands and a foot to pry her out. _I did not scare her; Ramsey accomplished much worse than I could ever do.  I would have died.  I would have died trying to escape.  Or…or…have Needle end it before he could get to me. She survived him. Sansa’s face is her own mask; she does not need other people’s faces like I do._

 Everything was getting so much colder, and she needed Jon. No, not just Jon.

This time she stabbed the old tree, gnarly and mean just like Walder Frey. _She needed her pack_. _We are a pack. Jon was going to be our leader, and I was going to protect him. Protect them all, just like Nymeria._  Stab after stab after stab. Nothing. The blade was cold and she only managed a few holes and dents.

“These trees are old. Tough too,” Her older sister’s scent was no longer the sweet scent of lilacs, lemons, and innocence. _Clean, fresh, warm like Mother. Just enough musk and pine like Father._

“Sansa.” Her sister was in her black furs, a steel broadsword in her hands.  It was not as big as Brienne of Tarth’s, or the Hound’s. Its hilt was a direwolf with warm amber eyes.  A wolf she knew well.

“I’m sorry to say this but Needle is not a sword for hacking and slashing.  This might do, though.  When I saw you fighting Brienne…well, Needle just stabs, doesn’t she?”

“The Catspaw did its job, though! I had her right at her throat.”

Sansa laugh was soft, “Oathkeeper was at your throat too, as I recall; Brienne made a vow to our Mother that she would protect us.  She was going easy on you.”

Arya’s scoff caught in the frigid air “ _That_ was easy?”

“You fight like someone from Essos. You are an assassin, not a soldier.  Brienne _is._ You need to fight like one if you even want to stand a chance against the Others.  When Brienne returns, I’ll have her train you.  Please, you’ll need this.”

Needle slid back into her scabbard. Needle was light like air. Needle sang against the winter air. Both of her hands grasped the hilt.  It was heavier than Needle, much heavier.  But she could still lift it with ease. The broadsword howled against the tree, leaving bite marks, chunks on the ground. Every slash and gnaw was direct. On a man, deadly. _Needle is strong for every season but Winter_.  _This sword rages against the cold._ The next slash left sap flowing from its side.

“Do you like it, Arya?”

“Sansa...” _Stop it.  Wolves don’t cry_ , “Thank you for this, and…I’m sorry. For everything. I---“

“I’m sorry too. But we need to be done with our apologies and our fighting.  Do you understand?”

She nodded. The tree’s’ gaping wound meant a sure death. A smile crept onto her face. _Finally._ Arya turned to her sister; Sansa’s eyes were Ice, “What will you name her?”

“ _Nymeria._ ”

“Good,” Sansa turned to go, her black furs swinging gently behind her, “I’ll leave you to it then.  Come back to Bran and me when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

Sansa stopped, “Are you?”

“I am.  Tell me…tell me what to do.” _I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I stay with my pack_.

Her older sister’s mask melted away, a smile warm as spring, a gloved hand outstretched, “I’ve had a plan for quite some time.  Come with me; you, Bran and I need to discuss some things before we start.”

Arya’s grip was tight, “Very well.”


	6. Chapter 6: Blood and Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master of Whispers finds himself at a crossroads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in Vary's point of view.

A large mountain of unread scrolls piled atop the King in the North’s desk.  _Warden of the North, now I suppose._ They had begun collecting not two days after his arrival at Dragonstone, and had continued to grow ever since.  Both Jon Snow and Daenerys had made the decision to stop at Dragonstone to restock supplies and dragonglass before heading to White Harbor.  It had been a fortnight since their arrival at the Targaryen castle.

 Snow barely stayed in his own bedchambers, having been too occupied by the Dragon Queen’s charms. Targaryens may have been as subtle as a raging aurochs in heat, but the Stark lack of subtlety was clearly apparent in the brooding young man.

All of the scrolls were written by Lady Sansa.  Updates on training the Northern people, the filling and acquiring food stores, the influx of refugees, warnings of the restlessness of the other Lords and his need to send words of reassurance. Words he never read. _How unwise._ Varys grimaced. _Well, at least he has a pretty face and charisma._

He never knew of his younger brother’ distant behavior or visions or his youngest sister’s murderous intentions towards Lady Sansa or Little Finger’s manipulation of Arya.  The only scroll he cared to read was the one about the Others supposedly heading to Eastwatch. If Varys hand made the maester hand the scroll directly to Snow, the young man would have likely ignored it as well.  And then his and Tyrion’s brilliant plan. Danaerys’ unwillingness to listen. _We could’ve have used a third dragon._

Varys was starting to think that the only difference between the two rulers was their coloring and Snow’s brooding nature and her fiery one.  Both acted on instinct, even when they thought they were thinking ahead and playing the game.  _Just more pawns._

Two new scrolls had been delivered to the Warden of the North. Usually, it was one at a time, but the two now dead ravens proved otherwise.  The Maester had noted that they flew at an unnatural speed, and collapsed upon arrival. _Their eyes were white, he said._

Varys smirked.  What, he wondered did Lady Stark have to say to her brother now?   _No doubt she has a few words for her brother's new allegiances._ His letter opener’s blade carefully opened the scroll of the first letter without breaking the seal.

 

_My many thanks and unending gratitude, Lord Varys for your sending shipments of dragonglass to White Harbor.  They have arrived in Winterfell._

 

He blinked.  The front of the scroll had Snow’s name on it. _Oh dear._

 

_Since you are the only one fully aware of our situation in the North, you are now complicit in its dealings and rulings. I am glad that someone Is reading my letters. I suggest that we set up a correspondence until you reach Winterfell.  You may use Jon’s stationary and wax seal since he has only ever used it once since his departure nearly a year ago. He will not notice.  Please send more dragonglass as soon as possible; I suggest sending all that remains in Dragonstone’s caves._

_I hope to hear from you soon,_

_Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, acting Wardeness of the North_

The second scroll was much thicker than the last.

 

_No doubt that you will get this scroll soon after reading the last.  I shall be brief, and you must be prompt. Trust is needed on both sides if we are to survive. I sound a bit like Jon, I suppose but nevertheless, there is urgent news that you must be aware of.  I know that you shall keep it secret until we can meet in person at Winterfell to prevent waking the Dragon._

_As you have guessed, Cersei’s words are wind; she has sent Euron Greyjoy to Essos for the Golden Army to lay siege on Winterfell.  She has offered them money.  We have promised them the restoration of the Targaryen Dynasty as well as the full restoration of their lands and titles that were stripped from them during the Blackfyre rebellions.  According to my sources, the Golden Army’s current leadership has been contested by two Blackfyre siblings that descend from Maelys the Monstrous on their mother’s side. We will hear from them relatively soon regarding their decision._

_My cousin and his Dragon Queen’s wedding shall take place underneath the Godswood of Winterfell; they must agree to these terms if they want Northern support after our wars with Cersei and the Others.  The handmaids, local women, and I have already started working on both their wedding garments and banners. The wedding must take place the night they arrive at Winterfell; I don’t think the populace of Westeros would look kindly on the idea of having their Queen’s heir be a bastard, do you?_

_Please inform them of the wedding plans and nothing else._

_Do not forget the dragonglass, and make sure that your queens fleet (or what is left of it) is filled with whatever remaining supplies she has at Dragonstone._

_Tell the ravens you have gotten my message, and that you understand the urgency of the contents of this letter. Their eyes are white._

_We will talk again soon enough,_

_Lady Sansa Stark, Wardeness of Winterfell_

 

Varys sat back in Jon Snow’s chair. _Cousin? Blackfyre?_ “Oh, Gods…her cousin.” Ned, Robert, and Rhaegar must be fighting in the afterlife. 

The wind hissed at his face as he raced to the rookery. He could barely see due to all the fog. His only indication that he was heading in the right direction was the black peak of the rookery barely sticking out of the fog. _Of course it would be the topmost tower, bloody Targaryens and their showmanship_.

His face, despite being a wind-bitten red was serenely calm as he coaxed the befuddled maester out of the rookery, “Lord Varys, the ravens! The ravens! I thought them dead!”

“Did you, Tomas? How silly?  Perhaps a walk in the fresh air will help; You’ve been indoors for too long, I think.”

Their eyes were white.  Neither raven moved.  They just stood there on the windowsill waiting. They were much too thin to be alive.  _All the way from Winterfell._

His fingers fumbled as he tied his scroll to one of the raven’s feet.

Their eyes were not black.  There were no pupils.  Just a cloudy white, “Lady Sansa,“ he croaked. Gods, his hands were shaking, “I have just received your ravens. I shall bring up your discussion regarding the wedding at dinner tonight with the Queen and your…” he paused, “Your brother…tell me, the raven need only tap his feet twice to confirm…is..is Jon Snow legitimate?”

A pause.  The first raven cocked its head, revealing vertebrae underneath the black feathers.  The second raven squawked, its claw scraping the stone windowsill. Once. Twice. Varys took out both scrolls from his sleeve, tossing them into the fire, “Your secrets are safe.  I look forward to hearing from you soon, as well as meeting with you.  I will do my utmost to hurry the Queen and her company.”

Four white marbles blinked back at him in recognition, two black feathers fell to the floor as the ravens disappeared into the fog surrounding Dragonstone.

 


	7. Chapter 7: Dragons and Crypts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady of Winterfell is met with news. Sansa and Arya find common ground in the crypts. A raven arrives for Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really appreciate it. This chapter is a bit of a long one, but I hope you like it!

Tormund Giantsbane lay in Rickon’s old bed, fevered and sweating. Betsey, one of the maids, laid a new compress atop his forehead.

“Wildlings aren’t known for taking fever; they are a tough lot, Ser Berric,” The one-eyed man looked at Sansa with an all-too familiar sadness.

“A wound from one of the wights that found us; it was a rusty knife, m’lady.”

Tormund’s hands were cold and sweaty, “You may go, Betsey, and shut the door.”

 _Thank the gods it was only that_ ; their maester had applied a poultice and had bandaged Tormund’s chest.  Even through the bandages, she could see the angry red healing and tightness of the maester’s stitches, “How are you feeling, Tormund?” She couldn’t help but notice how warm he was as she flipped the compress.

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the tall woman? Your guard? The one who fights bears? I’d like her to kiss me before I die.”

The smile was hard to hide from him, “You are not going to die.  You’ve just a fever, and the poultice our maester gave you will help break it and speed the healing” His hair was a tangled mess of ginger curls, “Besides, we’ll have to make you look presentable so you can properly greet Lady Brienne.”

His bark turned into a cough, “I’ll---ugh---I’ll not dress like you damned kneelers, Sansa! I’d rather---“

She placed two of her fingers to his mouth, “I meant bathing and brushing your hair, and maybe even clean clothes.  I won’t make you a pretty little lordling, I promise.”

Tormund sighed, “You’re not a bad woman, Sansa.  A good woman and kissed by fire as well! It will bring us good luck, gods know we need it, against the Night King…his men…that damned dragon..”

“Shhh, Tormund.  If you don’t rest, you’ll never be presentable to Lady Brienne.”  The wildling closed his eyes, a loud snore soon followed.

Sansa looked to Ser Berric, “What about the Night’s Watch, Ser Berric? Do they know?”

He nodded, “Tormund, myself and what was left of our men sent ravens.  We got word at the Gift that they’ve started evacuating the villages. I’ve sent ravens to Houses Karstark and Umber as well.  As soon as we are able, Dolorus Ed, his men, myself, and hopefully Tormund will head back.

She ran her fingers through Tormund’s greasy locks.  _He really does need a bath,_ “Bran has sent his ravens periodically; Even with Daenerys’ dragon, they are barely moving.” It hadn’t even been a day since she’d received word from Lord Varys of Jon and Daenerys setting sail for White Harbor when Ser Berric came stumbling in with Tormund and what was left of their men, “It’s almost as if they’re _waiting._ ”

The ragged knight laughed, “Of course he waits.  He waits for your brother; they fought at Hardhome from what Jon told me on our travels.  The Night King has one dragon; he must want two more, and that Dragon Queen has them.  Three dragons would make him unstoppable.  Neither Westeros nor Essos would stand a chance.  Thoros saw in the flames a man consumed with ice, wanting nothing but a world covered in it, if you could imagine.  Jon and his Dragon Queen are sorely needed, m’lady.”

Sansa’s fingers now slid over and over her necklace, and the ornamental sword attached to it, “Yes.  They are.  They should reach White Harbor in a matter of weeks,” her blue eyes met his brown ones, “They will both come, I promise Ser Berric.  Now please, you need your rest as well.  Perhaps a bath and fresh change of clothes?”

“Lady Sansa I cannot…not while they---“

“The Others are not at Winterfell. _Not yet_ , Ser Berric.  As Lady of Winterfell, I order you to freshen up, eat something, and get some rest.  Understood?”

The knight’s cheek’s reddened, “Yes, m’lady.”

 ****** 

Mother’s smiling face nestled into Father’s chest, her stone eyes closed. Father smile was soft, his eyes full of bitter sweetness. Their coffins lay below their statues. A stone version of Ice lay across their feet.  Robb and Talisa had a single coffin; their effigies were solemn-faced but their hands tightly held on to one another. Talisa’s one free hand cradled her swollen stomach. Grey Wind lay at Robb’s feet, eyes stoic and fangs barred for war.  Lastly, sweet and wild Rickon.  The wildling woman, Osha, held him in her arms with Shaggy Dog next to them.  Bran demanded she be there, and Sansa could not deny him, not when his eyes had looked so sad, even for a moment so brief.

The rebuilding of their family’s statues in the crypt was a bonding exercise for her and Arya.  It took them weeks to find the perfect stonemason.  Drawing her family members had been even harder.  She could remember what they looked like, sounded, smelled, felt like when held close to her, but a part of her did not want to draw them for the stonemason; the effigies themselves cemented the fact that they were all dead. _Dead but at rest._

“Do you think Winterfell will survive the Others and Cersei?”  Arya whisper seemed to ring out through the crypts.  She sat on one of their ancestor’s more decayed crypts, her legs lazily crossed and cleaning Nymeria’s blade with broad even strokes and an old rag.

Sansa smiled at her, “Winterfell survived Theon and Ramsay; she will survive Cersei.”

“Winterfell’s a woman then?” Arya snorted, “What makes you think that?”

“Of course she’s a woman; only a woman can be so strong and last so long against the horrors of men.”

“Yes; you’re right on that account,” Arya’s brown eyes looked up from her work, “But what about the Others? And the dragon wight? It _took down_ the Wall, Sansa.”

“Eastwatch.  It took down Eastwatch.” She looked up at Mother and Father. _Tell me what to do. I know what I must do, but couldn’t there be another way?_ A cold breeze brushed at her face, further down the crypts where Uncle Brandon and her Grandfather were buried. _And Lyanna._ It was so dark, even the torch she brought to guide her was nearly swallowed by the darkness. 

Arya’s calls to her seemed almost whispers.

She lit the candles surrounding Lyanna’s effigy. Her aunt’s face was solemn, sad, “I used to come visit you, almost every night with Theon. The crypts were the only place Ramsay would never go.  I used to cry to you, tell you all the awful things _he_ did. I thought you’d understand” She took the two black feathers from Lyanna’s hands. _Mine and Robert Baratheon’s. Stupid little gifts for a girl who didn’t deserve them_. Her tears were quiet yet they burnt all the same, “Do you regret any of it? Father lied to you to give an excuse to a meaningless and stupid war.  Thousands of good men died for that war.  Women and children were raped and murdered in the crosshairs of that war. Your father and older brother were killed because of you and Rhaegar’s dalliance.  Rhaegar annulled his marriage and left Elia powerless and her children bastards just so he could marry you; They are dead now,” Sansa’s voice grew hoarse; she felt a rage that she had not felt since she was a little girl forced to look up had her father’s decapitated head, “You have a son who will never know you, never love you, and will die fighting against the Others your prophecy-obsessed dragon bastard husband never new about!”

The breeze hit her face again. _Winter is Coming. Family, Duty, Honor_. The feathers were covered in dust but the black somehow still shone through, “You don’t deserve these; Father and Mother do.” The tears were gone, and she regained her composure; if she’d stay another twenty minutes or so in the crypts, the redness from her face would be mostly gone.

“Want me to cut off her head?”

Sansa jumped at Arya’s voice, “Seven Hells, Arya!”

Arya emerged from the darkness, eyes bright with mischief, “I believe that is the second time in less than a minute that I have heard you curse in my entire life… _I’m sorry, Sansa_.”

Sansa snapped, “You need to stop that sneaking about; you’re only good at it in the dark. In the daytime, it’s obvious.  Winterfell isn’t busy and loud like Braavos; you stick out like a cat looking for scraps.”

Arya’s eyes lost their playfulness, “No, Sansa,” she slipped her hand into Sansa’s, “I meant Aunt Lyanna. _I’m sorry._ ”

Sansa smiled, “The last time you held my hand, Jon and Robb led us into the crypts to scare us.  Do you remember?”

“Yes.  Only the crypts aren’t what give me nightmares anymore…”

Sansa faced her sister, her eyes staring deep into Arya’s, “You are Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Catelyn Tully and Ned Stark.  You escaped the Faceless Men as you became one.  _You_ killed Walder Frey.  _You_ destroyed his House.  _You_ are the winter that came for them.  _You_ avenged Mother and Robb.  _You_ avenged the Red Wedding, not Jon at the Battle of the Bastards. _You._ _You_ are as strong as our Lady Mother and Winterfell itself. Never forget that, Arya. Every time you find yourself scared, tell yourself these things; they will make you brave again.  Nightmares don’t stand a chance against you.”

Arya laughed, “How many times a day do you have to tell yourself that you reclaimed Winterfell and fed Ramsay Bolton to his own dogs?”

She smirked, “I also persuaded Jon to help me, and don’t forget the Vale army.”

“How many times, Sansa?”

“It depends on the situation, really.  On average, every other hour.  It used to be every ten minutes or so.  Give it a few months and you should be at my level of repetition.”

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?”

“ _We_ avenged the Red Wedding. We are stronger than our brothers.”

She squeezed Arya’s hand, “We must always be so, even when we don’t want to, dearest.”

“Aye, that much is true,” Arya looked at the feathers in Sansa’s hands, “Can I have one? I want to give it to Mother.”

“Always.”

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

Arya’s hand slid from her sister’s grasp, “My offer still stands; I can lop off her head. If Jon asks, I’ll tell him Littlefinger did it in a rage.”

Sansa paused for the tiniest bit, “No.  She is father’s sister and Jon’s mother.  Aunt Lyanna is a Stark, and we must not dishonor her,” Arya frowned, “We don’t have to give her offerings, either.”

Arya smiled, “Fine, but what if her head did accidentally fall off? I mean—

“No.”

 ******

The maester met them at the entrance to the crypts, “Lady Sansa, a raven came for you while you were gone,“ His rheumy eyes were full of concern, “The seal, I believe it is from Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa grasped the scroll from him, “The banner for House Targaryean is a red three-headed dragon with a field of black behind it, dear maester; these are not the colors of a Targaryen.” A seal of a black three-headed dragon on a field of red greeted her eyes,

 

_To Lady Sansa, Wardeness of Winterfell,_

_By the time that you receive this letter my brother and I will be within a day’s ride to Winterfell.  As you have requested, we have brought our own food, weaponry, furs, armor, etc. We did not bring the elephants as they would not survive the cold of the North for long.  My brother, Shieron, also suggested that you would not be pleased if they had been turned into ‘wights’ as you say; properly trained war elephants do enough damage while alive, undead ones would be quite unstoppable.  We have in our army just over half of the original amount of the Golden Company; Harry Strickland’s men were more concerned with gold than reclaiming their honor, lands, and titles._

_We are most honored to serve you as well as Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen.  I am personally excited for the wedding.  We shall discuss our terms at tomorrow’s supper._

_I brought wine.  It is not Dornish, but it is a Bravoosi honey wine that I think will pair well with your Northern food._

_Until Tomorrow,_

_Shara Seastar of House Blackfyre,_

_Commander of the Golden Company_


	8. Chapter 8: Mothers, Daughters, and Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya thinks about her sister and notices how much both of them have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't as exciting as the last, but I wanted a chapter in Arya's POV. I also wanted to see the sisters bonding and not at each other's throats. I'm sorry for the long wait guys, but I promise the next chapters will be quite a doozy!
> 
> Also, this chapter takes place right after Sam and Gilly get to Winterfell and right before the previous chapter. Don't worry, the next chapter will take place shortly after Chapter 7 left off.
> 
> Lastly, sorry if the formatting is a bit wonky; technology is not exactly something I'm an expert in.

_Chapter 8: Mothers, Daughters, and Sisters_

_“Isn’t little Rickon a handsome little boy, Arya?” Catelyn’s eyes were weary.  Weary but happy._

_Sansa cooed, “Oh Mama! Rickon is beautiful.” Her smile made Arya want to throw something at her; Sansa was always cooing at something; dresses, lemon cakes, more dresses, songs about knights and princes, dresses, and babies._

_She peeked at the swaddled pink creature, wrinkling her nose, “He looks like Old Nan’s pudding, Mama.  He’s all wrinkly like Old Nan too!”_

_“Arya!” her mother tutted, “That’s what babies look like when they're first born.”_

_The little girl stamped her foot, “Not me!”_

_Catelyn laughed, “Especially you!  And Bran, and Sansa, and Robb.”_

_Arya climbed up with her sister onto the bed, both girls on either side of their mother. Sansa snuggled up against her mother’s shoulder, dreamily staring at Rickon._

_Rickon’s forehead was wrinkled, and his eyes were a dark blue Arya didn’t understand.  But he smelled sweet.  It was a sweetness she did not understand but knew it was her favorite smell in the whole world._

_“Mama?”_

_“Yes, Arya?”_

_“Do babies always smell this good?”_

_Her mother’s laugh was kind and warm, her lips even more so on her forehead, “Yes.  Yes, sweetling, they do.”_

****** 

            As soon as Sam Tarly, Gilly, and Little Sam had gotten to Winterfell and hurriedly introduced themselves to the sisters, the young wildling woman somehow managed to get Sansa and Arya into Father’s study.  She chittered at them until both were sitting down, and before Arya could protest, Little Sam was placed in her lap. _This morning I was slitting the throat of a piece of shit and now a woman I don’t know trusts me to hold her babe.  What has Jon told her of me?_

            Gilly ran to shut the door, her eyes big and brown with concern, “No one can hear what I say except you two?”

            Sansa smiled reassuringly, “No one. I promise.”

            Little Sam’s grubby hands grabbed at Arya’s hair. She made him sit in her lap, bouncing him on her knee as Gilly continued.

            “Sam has gone to tell Bran of the news. I wanted to tell you two since I found out about it before he did.” The young woman began to fidget, “I just don’t know how to say it without upsetting you.”

            Sansa got up from her hair and held Gilly’s hands in hers, “Whatever you tell us will be less upsetting if you sit down and calm yourself.  Neither Arya and I will be mad at you for anything that you say.  Jon considers you, Sam, and your child family; that makes you part of ours.  Now, what did find out at the Citadel?”

            Gilly sat in the chair opposite them.  Arya could see her hands were still shaking, even in Sansa’s grasp.

            “Jon is the legitimate son of Ragger--- _Rhaegar_ —Targaryen, and your aunt, Lyanna; he is the heir to the Iron Throne.”

            Silence filled the room.  Arya could feel her heart bursting out of her chest.  _Jon is…is not…is a Targaryen. Gods…no._

            Little Sam yanked her hair. Hard.  She glared at him only to be met with soft baby kisses all over her face.  Her face was wet. He smelled of an unknown and yet so familiar sweetness that escaped her memory. _Tears.  Why are there tears? Jon, where are you? I need you._ Her voice was barely a whisper, “Thank you, sweetling”

            Little Sam cooed in reply.

            Sansa was quiet for what seemed an eternity, “Jon is Warden in the North; he cannot be a Targaryen.  Gilly, are you sure?”

            The girl fished a piece of parchment from her skirts, “I tore it from a book at the citadel.  This maester…he recorded everything.  He was at your aunt’s wedding in Dorne.”  
            Sansa’s voice was full of concern, like Father’s, “Were there any witnesses at the wedding, Gilly?  Besides the maester?”

            Her sister’s eyes were conspiring, thinking, plotting, “Sansa?”

            Blue eyes met her own, “No one can know.  Not even Jon.  He has knelt to the Dragon Queen. He is Warden of the North now.  Arya, if the Dragon Queen finds out that Jon has a stronger claim to the throne than her, we lose everything.  If the Northern Lords find out, we will have a civil war on our hands.”

            Why was her heart so tight and hard like a fist? She wanted to cry, scream, and rage at all of it. “I understand, Sansa. Thank you.” _Paying my courtesies? Am I a lady now_? The giggle was strange and strained to her ears. She rested her palm on Nymeria’s pommel.  Its grooves followed the lifelines of her palms, calming, clearing her head. Almost. _He left the North. He left his people with a thought that…no a hunch…that a woman with dragons would help him with no cost. Sweet Jon. Noble Jon. Stupid Jon. Kneeling Jon_ , Brother Jon. No, no he is Cousin Jon.

            Sansa’s eyes were stone, her mouth a firm, thin line, “I got the raven this morning.  He said that Cersei agreed to help us as well.”

            “Well, that’s horseshit.” _Idiot Jon. She warned you. Come back._

Sansa managed a grin, but Gilly’s eyes went wide at Arya’s words.  Little Sam laughed.

Sansa turned to her, “Gilly, please tell me and Arya; were there other witnesses to the wedding?”

“Yes, m’lady” she handed the parchment to Sansa, “The ink was smudged at the end; I couldn’t quite make it out.”

Sansa squinted at the writing, “Dayne.  The last name is Dayne.  There is another, but it’s been smudged out, as you said.”

 _Thank the Gods, Old and New_ , “Arthur Dayne and his men; they’re all dead. There is no need to worry.”

Sansa smiled sadly at her, “Yes, Arthur Dayne is dead, as is his men.  Father and Howland Reed killed them at the Tower of Joy” Sansa placed the paper in her pocket, “Thank you, Gilly for this information.  I think you and Little Sam need a good rest.  Arya, will you take them to their room? Then bring Bran back with you.  We have much to discuss.”

******

Sansa used to yell, stamp her feet, or even cry when she was angry at someone. _Usually me_ , Arya thought.  Instead, her Tully blue eyes became stone like their father’s and her face became as cold and unrelenting as Winter itself.  Sansa was no longer the little girl who wanted to dress like a Southron lady and sing songs of knights and ladies.  Sansa was the North.

Not that Bran noticed.

“How long have known, Bran?” Sansa sat opposite him.  Arya sat on the guest table peeling a stale apple with Catspaw.

Her brother’s face was a blank emotionless slate, “I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I know all things from all times and places.”

Sansa’s voice was firm, “How long have you known about Jon’s true parentage, Bran?”

“Before I came to Winterfell.”

“Why didn’t you tell me and Arya?”

_His eyes. They are brown, just like mine, but…there is nothing left of Bran there._

Bran’s voice was a void, “You did not ask. It was not for me to tell you; I am to tell Jon. He must know.”

Arya slid off the table, Catspaw slid back in its scabbard, “Seven Hells, Bran! We cannot read your mind! This is important! You were going to tell Jon and not us?! Do you know what could’ve happened if he found out? If that Dragon Queen found out? Cersei Lannister burned the Sept of Baelor, killing thousands; she is probably sending her armies straight to Winterfell to kill us.  If we survive her, and Daenerys finds out, her dragons will finish the job before the Others do!”

He sat there, unchanging, emotionless, “I am the Three-Eyed Raven; I must do what I must to stop the Night King, and I must---“

“That’s enough, _Brandon_!” Arya jumped at her sister’s bark.

Her brother’s body tensed, “M-Mother?”

Sansa rose from her chair, gripping her brother’s shoulder’s, boring into her eyes, “You are not to tell Jon or anyone else about his parentage, do you understand?”

            “Y-yes. I won’t say anything, I promise.” Sansa kissed his forehead before sitting back down.

            Arya nearly spit out bits of apple, “Seven hells, Sansa; what was that?”

            Her sister sighed, “My temper, apparently.  The Three-Eyed Raven is very good at provoking it.”

            “He called you ‘Mother’…”

            “Stop it,” Sansa sat back in her chair, “Bran?”

            He was no longer shaken, and had regained his emotionlessness, “Yes?”

            “Tell me everything about Aunt Lyanna’s wedding to Rhaegar Targaryen; everything you see, smell, and hear.  Everyone who is there and the location.  Spare me nothing.  I must know everything for certain.”

 ******

            Her sister’s bare feet pedaled methodically as her long fingers drafted the wool roving.  The roving was spun tightly into dense yarn.  Sansa’s fingers seemed to know what to do without her eyes keeping track of the yarn’s thickness.  Instead, her elder sister’s eyes focused on the fire.  Ghost was on her bed, watching the both of them.  He still didn’t fully trust Arya yet; she didn’t blame him. She didn’t quite trust herself either.

            Despite the door being open to her room, Arya knocked quietly anyway; Sansa hated being surprised, “Can I bother you?”

            Sansa kept spinning, her eyes transfixed, “I don’t think conversing with you is bothersome, Arya.  In fact, I prefer it to Sam or Bran; one is too nervous to be around me, and one well..one is the Three-Eyed Raven.   Also, Gilly and the baby are asleep,” her small feet moved up and down on the pedals.  In a strange way, it reminded Arya of someone kneading bread, “What would you like to talk about?”

            Arya shut the door quietly, sitting next to her sister, “Is _that_ Mother’s wheel?”

            Sansa smiled, “Yes.”

            “I thought the Boltons destroyed everything.”

            Sansa’s laugh was dark, “Not everything.  What is a simple spinning wheel to decapitating the heads of the stone direwolves of the Starks?  No. I found it in one of the servant’s chambers,” Sansa stopped spinning, “She was dry, cracked in places.  She had not been oiled and had lost her shine.  But,” her smile was light and hopeful, “our carpenter and I made sure that she would be in working condition again.  And so she is.”

            Arya smiled at the wheel, “I remember Mother trying to teach me to use it; she thought I’d have better luck with it than the spindle.  You have always been the best at making things, making them pretty.”

            Her sister’s stare calmed her, “Your strengths lie elsewhere, Arya.”

            Arya’s hands were cold. _How could Sansa spin with barefeet?_ It is too cold, “Why is the wheel a woman?”

            “A spinning wheel makes and creates the supplies we need to keep ourselves warm; mothers daughters, sisters, do we not try to keep one everyone warm and taken care of?”

            Arya’s voice was barely a whisper, “Mother kept us warm; always making us clothes and holding us close,” she eyed the wheel, “Does _she_ have a name?”

            Sansa placed the leftover roving on top of the wheel, “Catelyn.  Her name is Catelyn. Now,” she turned, facing Arya, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

            Arya placed Catspaw and her bag of faces on her sister’s lap, “I don’t need these anymore; I’m a Stark, not a faceless man.  I _need_ to be a Stark. Holding onto these will keep me from being a part of the pack.”

            Her sister nodded.  Sansa got up from her chair and put both items on her desk, “You don’t need them, but they may prove most helpful in times of need.  Giving these to me doesn’t automatically fix you, you know; killing Ramsay _did not_ fix me.  It helped, but It was no cure,“ Sansa’s hand was warm, “Practice with your broadsword.  Talk with me more often.  Walk around Winterfell and talk to everyone.  Don’t sneak about; there is no need for it here anymore. Littlefinger is gone.  We have only three threats now; the Dragon Queen, Cersei, and the Others.  We must focus on survival, not just the survival of the North and the rest of Westeros, but we must survive ourselves.”

            She gently squeezed Sansa’s hand, “I understand, “But Sansa, what do we do about Jon and Daenerys? Bran said that they---“

            Sansa’s eyes were on the fire again, “I have already been thinking about it, and I have come to a decision; I’ve been communicating with Varys.  As you know, Jon has not read any of my letters, but the Master of Whispers has; I have told him some of our plans. There is only one way to secure our alliance with Daenerys.  Upon their arrival, we’ll have them marry underneath the Godswood.”

            “Sansa.”

            “Yes?”

            “That’s disgusting.”

            Sansa rolled her eyes, “Jon has more claim to the Iron Throne than she ever will; by marrying her, Jon proves no threat and will act only as consort to the Queen of the South. She is also carrying his child.  Who would kneel to a woman with a bastard for an heir? According to Varys, it seems that…that they _love one another_.”

            “I need wine,” Arya got up from her chair, shortly returning with two goblets filled to the brim with White Harbor Red, “Queen in the South, you say?”

            Sansa took the other goblet from her, “Yes, but not right away.  I don’t want her dragons and Dothraki slaughtering our people. You are the only one I’ve told,” The wine was bitter in Arya’s mouth, “Jon knelt without consulting me, you, Bran, the Lords of the North and of the Vale.  He is currently Warden of the North, but I’m constantly trying to reassure the other lords.  They still think he is king; if they find out---“

            “We’ll lose them. We can’t risk that.  Sansa?”

            Sansa sipped from her goblet, “Yes?”

            “What if the lords declare you Queen? Just don’t sign your letters as Queen; I think it could be a bargaining chip when they get here.”

            Sansa nearly choked on her wine, “Arya? Are you serious?”

            Her fingers circled Nymeria’s pommel, “Yes.  Sansa, Jon spent mere weeks as King, and you have been ruling Winterfell and taking care of the Northern people for nearly a year.  Thanks to you, Lord Baelish is dead, we have enough food for the North stocked up for nearly a year.  We are forging weapons with dragonglass as well as armor, and preparing for a war from the North and the South.  I love Jon.  He will _always_ be our brother, but he should not be King in the North.  He should fight for the North, and kill the Night King and his army.  He just should not rule it. I may not always agree with you, but I know now that the decisions you make are for the North’s future and taking care of its people. It is for the best.”

            Her elder sister’s mouth was agape, “You…you support me?”

            “Yes.  I can’t let my love for my brother blind me to his idiocies. Sansa, you are my queen, whether I like it or not. And I shall serve you, whether you like it or not.”

            Sansa smiled warmly, “If you plan on serving me, I would have you be my Hand and most trusted advisor, Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

            “Seven hells,”Arya got up, “We’re going to need more wine.”


	9. Chapter 9: Golden Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Company arrives; a feast is held; newfound allies are tested.

_Chapter 9:_ Golden Opportunities

It was funny how Lyanna Mormont seemed to respect her now.  _So strange_.  Sansa wondered if the changed happened when Arya had told Lyanna she’d have to cut all her hair off if she was to fight properly.

 

Lyanna’s face was as red and angry as an aged strawberry, “No woman of Bear Island has ever cut her hair, and still they fight!  I wish to learn how to fight.  I want your sister to train me, but I won’t cut my hair for that mad woman!”

 

Sansa remembered clicking her tongue softly; she was at her desk looking over inventory, “Hmm. Come here; we’ll show my sister that a woman may fight even with the longest of hair.”

 

A half-hour later, Lady Mormont ran out to the courtyard to train with Arya Stark, her hair neatly and securely in a crown braid.  Sansa couldn’t help but laugh to herself when Lyanna’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her hair.

 

Her grin was as fierce as her sigil, “Thank you, Lady Stark. Your sister cannot refuse to train me now!”

 

It was one of the few times Sansa had ever seen Lady Mormont smile; most of, if not all of her family was dead or missing. According to Varys, her cousin, Ser Jorah Mormont would be in Jon and Dany’s company. _If she is smart, she’ll take him back into the fold. Family is all that we have now and so little time to cherish them._

 

It was nearly dawn, and she could not sleep the entire night; Ghost had left earlier to hunt. She sat up; even with the furs on her bed, winter’s chill sank to her bones. _They will be here today with nearly half of the Golden Company._ When she had sent the ravens, Sansa only dared to hope to receive a response; Gold often proved a much more valuable reward than honor. But regaining the titles and lands once lost during the Blackfyre Rebellions could prove just as tempting to an exiled army of noblemen. 

 

As a young girl, she had read stories about them in the dusty old history books that hid in Maester Luwin’s study; Daemon Blackfyre and Aegor Rivers. Bittersteel they had called him. Dark of Hair with violet eyes. He pined for Shiera Seastar, his half-sister and last of Aegon IV’s Great Bastards; a woman who was said to be skilled in the same dark arts as her own mother, a Lyseni noblewoman.  A great beauty with silver hair, with one eye blue and the other green. Did she bathe in blood to keep her youthful looks? The history books never wrote down when she died. Sansa smiled at the morning sun. _She went to Braavos with the Golden Company at her side.  And died there._

The Golden Company always completed a contracted and the men wore their rewards on their armor, dripping in gold and jewels.  A pile of their former captains’ skulls was gilded. There was never a promise they couldn’t keep; a contract was never broken.  Until she sent ravens to the Blackfyre siblings, leaving Cersei with half the amount of men she needed.

 

 _Shara and Shieron Seastar_. Either the siblings were direct descendants of Shiera Seastar or the names were a cover-up. Or both. Or something else entirely.   _Do they have her silver hair?  What about her eyes?_ She had tried to question Bran on the matter of the siblings, but his answer was vague; _I only see where the Godswood lets me, Sansa._

Essos was apparently too warm for Godwoods or ravens. _But not Dorne, where Bran saw Jon’s parents’ wedding and Aunt Lyanna’s death._

Sansa rose from her bed and started to get ready for the day ahead.  Brushing her hair, washing her face and body. Even lacing herself up and buttoning her dress. These acts steadied her as she prepared herself for what lay ahead. _Just like any other day, except that there will be an entire army to greet us._ She wondered how the incoming refugees, wilding and northerner alike, would react to the army of the Vale as well as the Golden Company outside of Winterfell’s walls.   In a few weeks’ time, they would be greeted by even more armies, some of which may try to kill them. _By dragon fire or wild fire.  Red flames or green.  It makes no difference what color they are; they cause only death and destruction._

 

Sansa stood by the window as she put her chains around her neck. Frost collected at the corners, her hot breath fogging up the window. She pushed it open, letting the winter wind bite at her pale face. She thrived in the cold, but even she knew that flowers drowned if given too much water. Outside in the distance, the Golden Army steadily marched towards Winterfell with the sun rising behind their backs.

****** 

Arya walked out with her, past the gates with Lords Royce and Glover trailing closely behind. Hundreds of somber, sturdy grey tents were being pitched opposite the Vale Army’s by men and women in fur-lined uniforms in the same grey color. 

 

“Where are the Seastar siblings, Sansa?” Arya looked at her, eyeing grey-cloaked soldiers with suspicion.

 

Sansa smiled at her, “You really never listened to Septa Mordane, did you?” She pointed to a small tent.  Outside of its entrance was the pile of golden skulls of previous captains.

 

Lord Royce snorted, “You’d think their tent would be bigger; they are the leaders after all.”

 

Sansa glared at Lord Royce; his embroidered cape and shining armor spoke volumes about his true spirit, “A true leader puts their people’s needs before their own, Lord Royce; an army is more willing to follow a commander who eats, sleeps, and fights with them, not one who sups with gold rings and roast goose while they eat nothing but bread and dried mutton.”

 

Royce stammered, his face red with shame, “Of course, m’lady. I only meant that most commanders---“

 

Sansa placed her gloved hand on his arm, “I know what you meant, Lord Royce, but now you know better than to judge a leader by their appearance.”

 

“Wise words spoken by a truly wise woman,” the woman’s voice reminded her of smoke and honey.  The woman in question emerged from the small tent. Her uniform was nearly identical to every soldier in the camp; the only differences being that instead of woolen leggings, she wore a heavy grey woolen skirt, and unlike the rest of her men, who wore steel broadswords at their sides, her blade was pale as milk glass, its hilt beautifully engraved with suns and stars.

 

Sansa smiled, “Commander Shara Seastar, I presume?”

 

The woman’s dusty mauve lips smiled.  She bowed, “Lady Sansa, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Shara Seastar’s skin was a deep olive tone; freckles sprinkled down her aquiline nose and cheeks. She wore her raven hair in a single plait that reached down well below her waist.  She could be no more than five and twenty years of age. When their eyes met, Shara Seastar’s eyes were nearly black in the cold morning light.  However, there was no detection of a Dornish accent; her accent, save for a few Braavosi inflections, was nearly identical to her own.

 

The woman took Sansa’s hands in her own, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek, “You are as pale as the snow itself, m’lady, while your sister,” she turned to Arya extending a hand, “You are as dusky and as wild as the Starks of old, no? I have heard a great deal about you, Princess Arya; I expect that we will train together, yes?”

 

Arya blinked slowly.  Unsure at first, but grasped with older woman’s hand, “Of course; I’d like to see how a soldier of the Golden Company fights.”

 

Shara’s laugh was rich as velvet and honey wine, “Soon, I hope! We must train for the wars ahead.  Lords Glover and Royce, I suspect?” Both older men were taken aback by her laughter, “Come, my good lords! Will you not shake hands with a fellow soldier?”

 

Sansa swore that Lord Glover’s smile was almost genuine, “My lady, it is a pleasure,” their handshake was firm.

 

Sansa grinned at this, _Does he mean to assert his masculinity with that firm of a handshake?_

 

Lord Royce could not contain his laughter, “My Lady Seastar, you are as tall as my eldest son and twice as beautiful as my daughter! Whatever made you decide on soldiering?”

 

The woman’s smile was warm and sad, “I did not decide; it was fate, my Lord,” She took Lady Sansa’s arm in her own, “If you’ll excuse me, my most honorable lords, but Lady Sansa and Princess Arya have important business to discuss with my brother and me in our tent.”

 

Lord Glover began to protest, “My Lady—“

 

Sansa nodded reassuringly at him, “It is perfectly alright, my Lord.”

 

Shara pointed to a large smiling man, two heads taller than Lord Glover, “Captain Manthey will show both you and Lord Royce the camp; no doubt, by the time we are done talking, you and Lord Royce will be well fed and singing alongside my men.”

 

 

The tent was surprisingly warm and a small fire burned in the brazier at the center of the room. The four siblings sat on old worn cushions that surrounded a glowing brazier.  Sansa couldn’t help but notice that even though Arya’s face was calm, her hand was dangerously close to Nymeria’s pommel.  She squeezed her little sister’s hand. _Not here, not now._

 

Across from her sat Shara and her brother Shieron, although it would be a stretch to even assume he was a half-brother; his skin was much darker, and his eyes were like his namesake, one blue and one bright emerald.  Shieron’s hair was cropped closely to his head; tight curls shorn into swirls and starry designs.  Unlike his sister, who seemed to always wear a smile of some sort, Shieron’s full lips were closed in solemnity.

 

Shara poured them each a mug of wine, “I’m sorry the glassware is not more refined; we sold anything of worth to ready ourselves for the Others and Cersei Lannister.”

 

Sansa grasped her mug with both hands; Shara’s eyes shown a deep indigo in the braziers red glow, “Thank you, Shara. If it weren’t for the golden skulls of your predecessors in front of your tent, I’d be a little worried who my raven had gotten to.”

 

Shieron answered her, his voice reminded her of musk and amber, “Gold will not save us against the Others, nor will it shield us from the wildfire of Cersei Lannister or the dragon fire of Daenerys Targaryen.  As soon as we had received your raven, we sold everything that shines and glitters, but those skulls and the two swords that belong to the both of us.”

 

Her smile was slow to form but confident nonetheless. Sansa met his mismatched gaze, “It is not possible for you to have sold even half of the Golden Army’s treasures within half a decade’s time without attracting the attention of your peers…and your enemies; how long have you _known_?”

 

His smile was warm. _Kind, like Shara’s,_ “My lady is keen.”

 

Shara’s hand rested on her brother’s shoulder, “Shieron, before you---“

 

His eyes shifted to meet Shara’s, “Sister, women descended from the First Men and Children of the Forest sit in our tent.  They share our wine.  Their men share food and wine and song with ours.  We fight together.  There is no time for deception.”

 

The dark woman sighed, “You are right.  Once again, you are right,” Shara continued, “Lady Sansa, my brother has visions. And ten years ago, he saw Them.  He saw the Night King, as you call him, and his army.  He saw the ice dragon.  He saw fire, both green and red,” Shara’s grasp was warm and firm, “He also saw you.”

 

 _Ten years? We were still children safe in Winterfell.  Rickon was only a babe_. She nodded, “I see our brothers both have the Sight. _How convenient_.”

 

Shara laughed, “My brother’s visions are not as frequent or as readily available, m’lady.  They come when they wish and leave when they must.  As is the way of the blood of Dragon. However, our families have blood that descends from the Valyrians of old and the First Men; these gifts have served both of us well, have they not, Lady Stark?”

 

Arya snorted, “How do we know your brother truly sees visions? You could just have very good spies,” her hand inched toward Nymeria, “Cersei could have sent you ahead of Strickland. She could have sent her little birds to spy on us before your arrival.”

 

Shieron smiled sadly,” Very well then, Arya Stark of Winterfell, would you like me to convince you?”

 

A wolfish grin eased its way onto Arya’s face, “Yes, I would.” _She wants blood. He will not give her any._

 

Shieron took his gloves off, leaving them by the brazier.  His eyes focused only on the lines of his palms.  He was transfixed. _His hands are beautiful, like supple leather,_ “You and your sister stood at the ramparts of your home. She told you that you would have survived the cruelties she suffered. However, if your fates had been switched, your sister would be in Braavos living the pleasurable life of a nobleman’s courtesan, and your head would have been on a spike, rotting alongside your father’s and Septa Mordane’s after your failed attempt to push Joffrey Baratheon off the ramparts of King’s Landing.”

 

Sansa looked at her sister; the wolf was gone.  Arya’s eyes were no longer fierce, but looked at her own with a sober glaze, “I went to Bran that night, Sansa.  I asked him if he knew what would’ve have happened if our roles had been reversed,” Arya grabbed one of Shieron’s hands, giving it a good shake, “You are right, Shieron Seastar; I will not doubt you again.”

 

He smiled at the young wolf girl, “Of course I’m right.  The only thing I’m ever wrong about is what to get Shara on her name day.” Laughter erupted in the tent; Shara nearly choked on her wine.

 

Sansa rose from her seat, “Shara. Shieron. I’m forever grateful that you and your army have come to aid us.  I have readied two rooms for you in Winterfell; our cooks have promised us quite a feast, well as much a feast one can have at such dire times, and I’d like to discuss our negotiations in rooms with walls of stone, where the wind will not carry our words so easily.”

 

Both Seastar siblings stood, bowing to her and Arya.

 

Shara smiled, “We could not be more delighted, my lady. I regret to say that my brother and I do not have the clothes needed in order to attend a feast.”

 

Sansa waved her hand, “We have spare clothes at Winterfell; they should fit both of you well. Until tonight, my friends.”

 

To her surprise, Shieron appeared to blush, his Bravoosi accent much thicker than his sister’s, “Yes, m’lady”.

 

 ******

 

The torches lit the Great Hall.  The last time Winterfell held a feast, Sansa’s father, mother, Robb and Rickon were still alive.  Now, the feast was far less grand but somehow merry.  The Lords and Ladies were talking, laughing, even smiling. Tormund, although still pale, roared with laughter alongside Ser Berric and several knights of the Vale and the Golden Company at the table alongside their own. _Gods be good he isn’t talking about bears again._

 

Even Arya and Bran seemed to be enjoying themselves. _I wish Jon were here._ Sansa wore her usual dress and fur.  Arya had added small braids to her own hair and wore black leather instead of her usual brown.  Sansa had made sure the maids had bathed and properly dressed Bran for the occasion.

 

Sansa had somehow found one of her mother’s old dresses for Shara to wear; it was a simple fur-lined dove gray, but it fit the woman beautifully.  She was talking to Lord Glover, who seemed absolutely entranced and shocked by her mere existence.

 

Shieron dressed in one of Jon’s outfits.  Although, Sansa did have to have quite a few inches of material to his pants.  _Thank the Old Gods Shieron’s boots are tall enough to cover the stitches._

Later during the feast, Shieron walked out to the middle of the Great Hall, a mandolin in his hands, “My Lords and Ladies! My sweet sister and I are forever grateful for your kindness and Lady Sansa’s warmth and hospitality.  Our men are glad in be in such good company as yours! We hope to honor you and your Lady with a song,” He motioned to his sister, “Shara, will you join me, please?”

 

She rolled her eyes at him, a smirk formed on her mauve lips, “You know I have no choice in the matter; you cannot reach the high notes.”

 

Sansa found herself laughing alongside her sister and everyone else in the hall.  “Tell me, Shieron, what song do you sing to honor the North and its King?  I warn you; we Northerners are prone to react strongly to a badly written song.”

 

Shieron’s smile shone bright and white, “Not badly written but it may be badly sung in parts,” he nudged his sister in the side.

 

Sansa returned the smile, “As long as the words are good and true, a true Northman will never mind the awful singing.  What say you, my lords?”

 

“AYE!”

 

Lord Glover roared with delight, “Sing on, good Seastars of the Golden Company!”

 

Shara outstretched her arms, “Lords, ladies. My dear Lady Sansa, Princess Arya, and Prince Bran.  Tonight, we sing for you The Carol of the Battle of the Bastards!”

 

Shara’s voice rang out sweetly like honey and smoke.  Her own brother’s baritone matched perfectly with her soprano as his fingers deftly and proudly played the mandolin:

 

_“The Gods cry for Victory!_

_Our King went forth to Winterfell,_

_With grace and might of chivalry;_

_Their gods for him wrought marvelously,_

_Wherefore the North may call and cry,_

_The Gods cry for Victory!_

Shara called to the crowd of Northern Lords, “Now good sirs, I ask that you join in the song! The last line is the same for every verse,” the dusky woman danced around the room, cheering them on.  Even Lady Mormont joined in the song;

_“Lo! The Boltons crushed and slay_

_Our goodly Northern Men_

_Till Lady Sansa to Winterfell came_

_With the Vale Army did she save_

_King Jon, his men, and Winterfell_

_The Gods cry for Victory!_

_Oh Gods,_ Sansa felt her smile dissipate _, What must the lords think? Ladies aren’t supposed to save the protagonist of the song; it’s the other way around. Oh Gods ._ Her eyes scanned the crowd once more.  She sipped on her ale; not a frown could be seen.  She wondered what Arya and Bran must have been thinking. _How did the Seastars know about my involvement in the battle?_

_King Jon, refreshed with goodly grace_

_In Winterfell did fight manly;_

_Through the grace of the Gods and Lady Sansa_

_He had both the field, and the victory_

_The Gods cry for Victory!_

 

The lords banged their mugs in unison, chanting, laughing; she could not believe her eyes.  _When was the last time Winterfell’s halls were filled with such song and happiness?_ She looked over to Arya. Her sister’s eyes were bright with life, her voice joined in the song. _Bran_. Although his lips did not move, something in his eyes stirred. _Is that you, sweet Bran?  Have you come to join us in the song?_

 

_The Boltons’ lords and all their men_

_Were taken and slain, and our Gods won,_

_With joy and mirth, and great renown_

_The Gods cry Victory!_

_Now our gracious Gods will save our king_

_His people and all his goodwill,_

_Give him good life and good endings,_

_That we with mirth safely sing_

_The Gods cry for victory!”_

Sansa could feel hot tears running down her cheeks as she cheered with the rest of the lords.  She hoped her gloves wiped away any sign of her tears, “Truly, when this war is over, the North would be glad of your skills as bards!  Well done, Lady Shara and Lord Shieron; we will have need of your songs soon enough.”  

 

Shara’s indigo gaze met her own, “We thank you, Lady Sansa. I hope your men enjoy happy songs; it is the only kind we will ever sing.”

 

For a moment, Sansa felt a tinge of the little girl who liked only songs of knights and damsels, and lemon cakes in her chest, “It is the only kind we will ever need.”

******

 

 _Meera Reed’s eyes were endless dark pools of sorrow_. _In her hands was a delicately dangerous sword of Valyrian steel, “For you, my lady; I have no need of it now.”_

_Sansa gently placed the sword on her desk. She grabbed the girls hands, squeezing them tightly, “Meera, I thank you.  I’m sure that he would thank you as well; you’ve given up everything to protect him.  I’m so sorry.  About everything. Is there any way I can’t persuade you to stay a bit longer? It would be nice to have someone my own age around to talk to.”_

_Meera’s eyes were unchanged, her voice was no longer shattered, but cold, “He’s not Bran anymore.  We lost him back in the cave with The Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest.”_

_“Given time, he may be more like himself again.  Meera I---“_

_“No, Sansa.  I think not.” The dark haired girl looked at the door, “I need to be with the rest of my family, m’lady.  Winter is Coming, and they need me.”_

_Sansa nodded, “Of course; I’ve made sure that you are supplied with food and clothing, as well as a good horse.  One of my men will assist you to the Neck. Please take care of yourself and your family; House Stark has been and will always be indebted to House Reed.  More than anyone except you and I will ever know.” She kissed the girl’s forehead lightly and met her eyes, “Bran may not be himself.  Protecting my family has cost you so much.  If ever House Reed should ever need anything, Meera, you need only send word to me. Be safe, sweetling.”_

_Meera smiled, “You have a good heart, like Bran’s used to be.  Thank you, Lady Stark.”_

_******_

 

The fireplace crackled, its warmth seemed to seep into her very bones.  Sansa was grateful for it.  She was grateful for Ghost sitting on her bed, and the hot mulled wine that would soon be brought in by one of the servants.

 

Her chair faced the fireplace. The flames flitted and flew up, small sparks exited the pile of logs. Shara and Shieron sat next to her. Neither sibling seemed shaken by the giant direwolf.  Shieron smiled slightly at great white beast, “Your Ghost is truly magnificent, my lady; your brother truly gave you a gift by leaving his direwolf with you.  I have only ever seen them the books I read as a child.”

 

“Ghost,” Sansa extended her hand, “Come and great our guests.” The wolf lazily gave a yawn; the floor seemed to rumble as he padded towards the siblings.

 

Shieron carefully extended an open palm.  His eyes met Ghost’s red gaze, “You are good, and I am most glad for it, good ser.  You protect our Lady; I thank you.” Ghost sniffed Shieron’s palm.  Apparently, the young man was deserving of a slobbery lick to the cheek.

 

Sansa laughed, “A direwolf kissing a dragon; how ironic.” _A black dragon, no less. Gods help us._

 

The great wolf lumbered towards Shara; his red eyes met her own sitting down.  _Her gaze is just as calm and penetrating as his.  Does he mean to have a staring contest?_ Shara’s long fingers reached behind Ghost’s ears to scratch; he did not move.  His gaze was focused solely on woman’s eyes.

 

Shara Seastar, it would seem, knew how to properly pet a direwolf despite having no previous encounters with them; her face was soon covered in Ghost’s kisses. Her laugh was deep and sincere, “Truly, Lady Sansa, this is a wondrous sight. Shieron was right; Ghost is magnificent,” The direwolf went back to Sansa’s bed. Shara wiped at her face with a hankerchief, “Are they always this big, m’lady?”

 

Sansa chuckled, “No. Ghost was the runt of his litter, but he grew to be the largest of them all,” she wondered how soon the mulled wine would arrive, “I like to think that Ghost’s size reflects what a direwolf should look like beyond the Wall, in the wild.”

 

Shara’s hands were folded. Despite being taller than Sansa, she held herself like a noblewoman. Sansa smiled at her, _A mask that hides the warrior beneath,_ “I know that plenty of wine was consumed at the feast, but the mulled wine will not be nearly as strong. I promise. I hope you that you like it; it is a recipe handed down the Stark line for generations.  According to Stark history, the recipe was made after a Dornish supply ship had gotten lost and crashed along the shore of White Harbor.  So much Dornish red, and we were a people who drank naught but ale.  Now mulled wine is a winter staple in the North.”

 

Clove and cinnamon wafted under Sansa’s nose as one of their servants came in with the mulled wine.  She squeezed the young boy’s hand, “Thank you, Tannen; that must have been awfully heavy for you.”

 

The wildling boy’s green eyes were bright. His cheeks reddened, “Oh no, my lady.  It weren’t heavy at all; I’ve lifted boars and such with me da after a hunt!”

 

Sansa looked into one of her pockets, “I think a reward is needed for such a show of strength, don’t you all?”

 

Shieron smiled at the boy, “Indeed; carrying such a heavy load for one so young is very impressive; I think a prize is needed for the young man.

 

She dug a piece of candied plum from one of her pockets. Tannen giggled, “For me? Really my lady?”

 

“Of course, sweetling,” She folded the plum into his sticky child’s palm, “Eat it before Tormund sees you; he may try to get a bite of it!”

 

The young boy gave her a quick kiss to her cheek, “Tormund says for me to give you that in thanks for making him and the rest of us freefolk welcome. Thank you, Lady Sansa,” The boy scampered out of the room giggling, his mouth and hands sticky with candied plum.

 

The door closed with a quiet click.  Sansa looked at the Seastar siblings once more, “Now that it is just us four, I think it is a good time to talk about negotiations, yes?” She poured the wine; steam rose from the simple stone mugs. The sent of cloves and cinnamon seemed to tease her senses, “Winter is coming and we all know it; I thank you for coming to our aid.  However, no good deed should ever go unrewarded,” Her eyes met Shara, “Daenerys Targaryen, my brother, and myself promised you and your men their lost titles and land.  What are your desires?”

 

Shieron’s mismatched eyes met her own, “You mean if we survive the Night King and his army?”

 

Shara’s laugh was tinged with darkness, “Do not forget Cersei Lannister and Harry Strickland and the rest of his men.”

 

 _They are thinking beyond thrones and titles.  Beyond pettiness and power,_ “Yes.  If we survive white walkers, wildfire, and dragonfire. If the world hasn’t been swallowed by death and chaos. If there is still a throne left, and a person sane enough to sit that chair of swords, what would you like to be rewarded with?”

 

Shara’s eyes drowned in the fire; its flames reflected in her indigo eyes and the hilt of her sword, “If we survive, my men and I would like Dorne and the Reach.  The Martells and the Tyrells are dead.  Give me and my brother Sunspear.  Give my men The Reach.  What the Lannisters, Euron Greyjoy, and the Dragon bitch destroyed, we will bring back to life. We will make the lands thrive.  They will be stronger than ever before under our control.”

 

Sansa rose from her chair, “Just Dorne and the Reach? Nothing else?” Her eyes rested on Shara’s sword, “You say you want Sunspear? Why not Dragonstone or Storm’s End? What about Starfall?”

 

Shara cocked her head, “Excuse me, Lady Sansa?”

 

Sansa opened the door of her wardrobe, “A woman claiming to be the descendant of the Great Bastards of Aegon IV, and yet she wears the ancestral sword of House Dayne.  You are not the Sword of the Morning, and yet you wield Dawn in the training yard with ease,” Her eyes went to Shieron’s, “You, on the other hand are a true Seastar; your eyes are the exact colors of your ancestor, Shiera. Unlike your 'sister, you are a true descendant of House Blackfyre; your sword is the namesake of your house and once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror. It hasn’t been seen since the War of the Ninepenny Kings; the last man who laid eyes on it died across the Narrow Sea at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy.”

 

The room was quiet except for Sansa’s rustling in her wardrobe and Ghost’s occasional yawns.

 

Shara was the first to speak, “You are a keen and bright leader, Sansa Stark; What you say is true.  Dawn is not my family’s sword, and my dream is to return it to House Dayne. That is why I want Dorne for my brother and me to have Sunspear if we live through this.”

 

“Returning the sword to House Dayne isn’t your only reason for wanting Dorne, is it? It is your mother’s homeland, correct?”

 

Visibly shaken, Shara looked towards her brother. He nodded to her. His smile, like his eyes, spoke volumes, “Yes, my lady.  You are correct about that as well.”

 

“Very well, then; Dorne and the Reach it is,” She walked away from the wardrobe.  In her hands, was a slender Valyrian blade with a curved golden hilt with a blazing ruby in its center, “This is Blackfyre’s sibling and sword of Queen Visenya Targaryen, and sister of Aegon the Conqueror.  According to the Night Watch’s records, Brynden Rivers took it with him on a ranging mission and both disappeared not to be seen for well over a century.  It made its way to Winterfell by means of a young woman and my brother, Brandon.”

 

Shara’s eyes were on the verge of tears, “ _Dark Sister_ …It’s so beautiful,” she rose to meet Sansa’s gaze. She smiled, “I use to dream of wielding it when I was a little girl; my grandmother said that it was lost to time forever.”

 

Sansa placed the sword in the woman’s hands, “Not lost to time, just to the Northern wild,” Her long delicate fingers wiped away Shara’s tears, “Dark Sister belongs to its rightful owner, and she is standing before me.”

 

Shieron rose from his chair, “What about Daenerys? What will she do when she sees two bastards wielding the swords of House Targaryen.”

 

Sansa snorted, “Her swords are covered in scales and breathe fire. Besides, according to one of her advisors, she wouldn’t know the Targaryen ancestral blades if someone stabbed her with them,” she waved her hand, “Excuse those last remarks; what I mean to say is that I know these swords will be in good hands with people who deserve them and will treat them as part of their own limbs.” _Does Daenerys treat her dragons as such? She has only two left._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The carol sung by the Seastar siblings is based heavily on the Agincourt Carol. Sorry about the long wait, ladies, gents, and others! I've been grading papers, writing papers of my own, and will continue to do so until the end of the semester. It's crunch time in CollegeLand, but I hope that you like the chapter.
> 
> If you're wondering who I based Shara and Shieron on, I drew heavily from Tina Desai (for Shara) and Michael B. Jordan (for Shieron). So purtyful.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter; it's quite a long one. The next chapter will have plenty of scheming and action, I promise!


	10. Chapter 10: Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain lion arrives at Winterfell. Blades are crossed, and wings hover above Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. It's been forever since I updated. Sorry about that. I blame grading papers, writing papers, and trying not to die from food poisoning or the flu. I hope you all like this chapter; it's from Jaime and Arya's point of view. I've already been working on the next chapter, in which we'll be hearing from a certain chick with some flying lizards and a guy who apparently knows nothing.

Chapter 10: Expectations

 

Brienne was right. Sansa Stark was no wilting flower. She dressed in black furs like armor. Her hair was in a style eerily similar to Catelyn Tully's when they first met. _She no longer dresses in purple dreaming of princes and dragonflies in her hair._   _Probably for the best._  Despite being surrounded by guards, Northern and Vale lords, she had the uncanny ability to make one feel as if she was the only one in the room with them. And not in a good way.

           

“Ser Jaime,” her smile was kind, but her Tully blue eyes had the resolute steel of her dead father, “Welcome; it is good to know that Tyrion isn’t the only Lannister with a shred of honor left.”

 

The lump in Jaime’s throat could not be swallowed. _Her voice, Gods, it chills,_ “Well, I never thought I’d hear that about myself, let alone Tyrion,” He looked around the room. Her younger sister seemed almost as unhinged as Cersei, if his sister had ever learnt to wield a sword. _Bran_. The boy’s eyes were hollow. Dead, and yet still he breathed, “I have come to fulfill an oath my sister swore but could not keep.  I have with me what was left of the Lannister forces at Riverrun. Your Uncle Edmure, although he will not send forces, has promised to host any Northerners, should they head south.”

 

Sansa’s eyes hardened, “Let us hope my uncle keeps his word, Ser. I appreciate you bringing what men you have left; any and all assistance is needed against the Night King and his forces,”

 

“I didn’t just bring men, Lady Sansa” Jamie pulled a soiled piece of parchment from his pockets, “In case the Targaryen woman’s dragons prove less than stable...”

 

Sansa rose from the long table, nodding to a rather fat young man. _Rather melancholy looking for someone so plump_ , “Sam, please take Ser Jaime’s parcel” she squeezed his hand tightly, “I know you will do what is best for us.” Her eyes met his once more, “Thank you, Ser.”

 

Her eyes scanned the room, “I noticed Brienne of Tarth did not accompany you. Has she left with my brother and our other allies?”

 

Jaime paused, “I was hoping to find her at Riverrun, but did not. I assumed that she left with the Hound and the rest of them to Dragonstone,” He met her eyes once more; although still cold, a hint of sadness lingered in them, “My lady, I swore an oath to your mother to find and protect you and your sister. I could not keep it, so I gave that charge to Brienne. Our families have always been at odds. I cannot deny my own part in it,” The floor was cold against Jaime’s knee as he knelt. The clanging of his sword against the stone floor rang about the room, “Will you allow me to protect you, and to take up my oath to your mother once more?”

 

Her steps were soft and quiet, gloved fingers brushed his cheek, “No man has ever protected me. My father tried but lost his head for it. No one protected me from Ramsay Bolton. Jon said he would protect me,” her laugh was nearly undetectable, “Brienne is the only exception; she killed Ramsay’s men as Theon Greyjoy and I were escaping,” Her eyes blinked into his green ones, “I have learned through harsh lessons that the only other person, other than myself, that can protect myself and my family is Brienne of Tarth. Rise, Ser Jaime.”

 

She looked at his sword. Her smile was a grim one, “Widow’s Wail, I presume?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Her delicately gloved fingers took it from his grasp, “This, along with Oathkeeper, Brienne’s sword, was made from Ice, my father’s sword.”

 

“Yes, milady.”

 

“You told Brienne as you gifted Oathkeeper to her that Ned Stark’s steel needed to protect his daughters.”

 

“I did.”

 

“So will this sword, in its own way,” the young woman motioned towards her younger sister. The young girl soon had it in her grasp, grimacing at the lion’s head pommel.

 

_What in the Seven…_

 

Sansa took Jamie’s golden hand in hers. He swore he could feel her warmth through the gilded appendage, “My sister and I do not need anyone to protect us. However, we do need you and your men to help us fight our enemies. Both in the North _and in the South_. Do you understand, Ser Jaime? You will be fighting in the North now; there will be no need of fancy sword work. You need a Northern sword, strong enough to last in the long fight against the cold,” she looked down has his hand, “Gold is a soft metal. Easily hacked and molded. You need a sturdier hand, something that won’t give you frostbite when the real cold hits us.”

 

Jaime smirked, “Since you’re taking Widow’s Wail, could you at least put a lion on the pommel of my new one?”

 

Sansa matched his gaze, “Lions cannot survive in the North, Lannister. But wolves do.”

 

******* 

The mulled wine was hot going down his throat. Despite his size, he felt as though his chair might swallow him. _A lady like Sansa Stark would never invite a man like myself to her room to ‘talk’._ Her direwolf lounged on her bed, red eyes narrowed on his figure. _Most girls don’t have a monstrous beast guarding them as well._

 

Sansa had no drink in her hand. Instead, her hands were primly folded in her lap, “How was your journey, Ser Jaime?”

 

“You’ve changed, Lady Stark. And yet, still so courteous,” he laughed, “Tell me, will you be so well mannered after killing a man?”

 

The smile was small and yet it betrayed nothing, “My father told my brothers to always execute a man yourself, and to look them in the eye till they no longer breathe. You owe a man those courtesies, even if they are utterly horrible beings. As a lady and a Northerner, I’ve made sure to do so every single time. We Starks hold dear to our ways.”

 

The wine was dark, almost black by the firelight, “House Bolton. House Frey. …Joffrey…” The room was warm. _Am I next?_

 

“I wish Brienne was here. We’d be a trio of kingslayers, wouldn’t we? If she arrives with Tyrion then a quartet, yes?” Sansa’s eyes moved to the fireplace. Her sigh was feathers and sadness.

 

“Olenna Tyrell killed Joffrey, Sansa.”

 

“All by herself? The necklace I wore took no part in your son’s death? Really? You’re smarter than that, Jaime. Even Stannis had help killing Renly.”

 

Cold swept over him, “Sansa…”

 

“You need quite a bit of money to fashion Tears of Lys into a jewel. I thought the necklace was just a gift from Ser Dontos. For saving him. I was wrong. Tell me Jaime, who wasn’t at the wedding?”

 

“Littlefinger. He was not there,” _I should have killed him_ , “Where is he?”

 

Red flames reflected off of her eyes, but they remained frozen, “His blood was mopped up by several of our servants. His ashes were mixed into our pig’s slop for their breakfast.”

 

“I wish I could have been there.” The gold froze the top of the stub where his hand should have been.

 

“Lord Baelish started the fighting between our families. He instigated the war of the Five Kings. He used me as pawn and prey, as well as countless others” Her hand covered his, “Justice has been served. Now we must work together.”

 

 _No tears. I am a Lion. No tears,_ “Cersei will not help.”

 

Her words were ice, “I know.”

 

“She’s hired the Golden Company to take Winterfell; The Vale and the Northern forces won’t be enough to fight her while your brother and Daenerys Targaryen fight whatever the hell is in up North.”

 

“Well then,” she turned, facing him. Her eyes seemed to melt, her smile no longer grim,  ”It’s a very good thing I have the other half to fight alongside us.”

 

Wine dribbled down his shirt.

 

She raised an eyebrow, “You’re just as sloppy as Tyrion, aren’t you? Brothers, to be sure” she grabbed a kerchief from out of her dress pocket. Her hands gently dabbed the corner of his mouth“.” _Not so cold after all. Tyrion and I have a lot to talk about when he gets here.”_ Shara and Shieron Seastar brought the other half to the North. They fight with us. Tomorrow morning, you will meet with the Seastars as well as the acting commanders of the North, the wildlings, and the Vale; you all have a great deal to learn from one another. Being the son of Tywin Lannister and brother to Cersei gives you military insight that we don’t have. Tywin is dead, but both you and your siblings learnt from him. We need that expertise on the battlefield if we are to survive.  You and Shara will be working together exclusively. She knows how Strickland works, and you know Cersei.”

 

He grabbed the kerchief, wiping the rest of his face, “What do the Seastars and their men want? Cersei and the Iron Bank offered Harry Strickland gold.”

 

“ _Home,_ Jaime. They want their homes and titles back. They lost everything in the Blackfyre Rebellions. With Daenerys on the throne, they will get them back.”

 

“And what makes you think she’ll give it to them? She promised Yara Greyjoy the Iron Island’s independence, and yet made your brother bend the knee.”

 

Her eyes narrowed, “She has lost the Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne in record time, and has yet to do anything to get them back.”

 

“She has the North, according to your older brother.”

 

“She has my brother.”  Sansa seemed to glide getting up from her chair. She didn’t make a sound returning with a cup of wine in her hand, “She is worse off than before; two dragons, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki. One would think that having advisors like your brother and Varys would have her thriving. She and her forces are not from Westeros. If she agrees to our terms and everything goes as it should, she will be supported by North and the Vale and the Seastars. The Riverlands will follow. Daenerys will not have nearly as much resistance from other Westerosi regions as Aegon and his sisters did.”

 

“I hope you’re right,” Jaime sighed, “When she ambushed us at the Reach…it wasn’t just the Dothraki. She came riding in on one of her bloody dragons. All she had to do was send the Dothraki to kill us all, and take the grain, but she destroyed the grain with her dragon. She burned my men alive with her dragon. Why?”

 

She held her cup with both hands, “Why did Cersei blow up the Sept of Baelor? Why did she wantonly sleep with you when she promised herself to Euron Greyjoy? Why did she name herself queen? Why do either of them do what they do?” Her sip was delicate. _So careful not to waste a drop_ , “Power, Jaime. They are showing us their power as a means to persuade and intimidate. Aegon used his dragons to burn men alive and have others bend the knee. Your father destroyed the Reynes and a song was written about it. Daenerys uses her dragons just like her ancestor. Cersei has wildfire and will soon have an army large enough to destroy those who stand in her way. They show all their power and might as a means to win, but that is where their weakness lies.---“

 

He swirled the cinnamon stick in his cup, pushing bits of star anise and dried orange around, “Your father once told me that he never fought in a tourney. One’s strengths should be seen during the battle, not before in a tourney where your enemy can see them.”

 

Sansa nodded, lightly brushing a piece of hair from her solemn face, “Precisely.”

 

“You haven’t told me everything, have you?”

 

“Only what you need to know,” Her eyes lingered to a small leather box by his chair, “You haven’t given me all of your gifts, either”

 

 _Is it really a gift though? One false move, and we’ll all be dead_ , “Cersei didn’t use all of the wildfire. I only took what I could safely carry.”

 

He placed the box softly in her lap. Even opening it a crack, otherworldly green beamed across their faces, “Three vials?” she hurriedly clasped it shut, “Why?”

 

He closed his eyes, “I wasn’t at Blackwater, nor was I there to see Cersei blow up the sept. Tyrion used wildfire to defeat Stannis and save King’s Landing. Cersei destroyed her enemies with it…I…I don’t know what this will do to a dragon or the frozen atrocities Beyond the Wall. You were at Blackwater. You saw the horror. But I think that you won't be as brazen as my siblings in using it. Each vial alone is enough to kill almost all of Strickland’s men. Two will take down everyone on the battlefield. Three may take down an ice dragon or Winterfell itself if things get desperate. ”

 

“Tormund told you about the ice dragon, didn’t he?”

 

He grimaced, “Amongst _other_ things.”

 

“The bear?”

 

“Gods, I wish he hadn’t.”

 

Her laugh was soft and sad, “He didn’t tell you how he got his name, did he?”

 

“Do I want to know?”

 

“No one does. You’ve been spared from that tale at least. Shieron Seastar wasn’t; he keeps a polite distance from our dear Wildling leader.”

 

He opened his eyes once more; her smile was gone, “I’ve given you my sword, plans for a dragon ballista, and three vials of wildfire. The world may very well be ending, Sansa Stark. And yet here we are discussing Tormund Giantsbane over soured spiced wine.”

 

“The nights are long, and Winter has finally come. All this dark talk can bring whole armies to their knees. We’ll prepare and we will fight to the bitter end, Ser Jaime. But we must remember and talk of the good things we’ve come to know in our lives as well.” Sansa placed the leather box next her chair, “I think it is time for our little talk to come to an end.”

 

He nodded. Both rose from their chairs, “Get some rest, Ser Jaime; we have a busy day tomorrow. Busier than usual, I'm afraid.

 

 

****** 

Arya Stark fought like a rabid wolf. _There is too much anger in her sword; she’ll wear herself out against that Seastar woman_. The northern cold bit at Jaime’s face. Although his eyes watered at the frigid air, he could not keep his eyes off Arya Stark and the Seastar woman.

 

The woman in question skirts twirled like rippling water. Her steel, although no broadsword, matched the Stark girl’s blows with ease. _She’s going easy on her_.

 

He, Sansa, and Shieron watched at the other end of the courtyard. Shieron wasn’t nearly as focused on the fight; he’d obviously seen it all too many times. The dark-skinned man knew the victor before the fighting had already begun.

 

“Shieron.”

 

The man’s face was solemn, although his mismatched gaze seemed otherwise, “Yes, Ser?”

 

“Your sister is an excellent swordsman; Lady Arya could learn something from her, I think.”

 

“Shara excels at anything she sets her sight on. I could only wish to be half so talented.” Jaime grinned at this; the Stark girl bested him three times that morning before challenging his sister after lunch. Arya’s fierceness showed in her fight. _Just like Brienne_. Shara betrayed nothing except skill, and even then, she had not revealed everything in her swordplay.

 

He looked to Sansa. Hands folded, eyes absorbing everything that took place between her sister and the Seastar woman’s training session. Her eyes met his, “Council my sister, Ser and I shall do the same with Lady Shara.”

 

“Thank you, milady,” he turned to the two combatants, “A break, for now, ladies; Stark, _come here_.”

 

Shara headed towards Sansa. Their arms soon linked like ladies of the court. Their whispers were lost to the wind.

 

Arya glared at him. _Seven hells, she means to rip my throat out._

A hand rested on her pommel, “What, _Kingslayer._ ”

 

He grabbed her chin by his good hand pinching hard, making sure her eyes met his, “You will call me either Ser Jaime or Lannister. Do you understand? I slew a king to stop a massacre; you slaughtered an entire house for your own pleasure. You are a vengeful thing, wolf-girl; it shows when you fight.”

 

She wrenched from his grasp, still meeting his gaze, “Other than trying to insult me, _Lannister_ , what exactly is your point?”

 

“You cannot let your emotions rule you in a sword fight; all that energy needs to be conserved. Use it at the opportune moment when your enemy is vulnerable. Seastar meets every single one of your blows with ease. After she defeats you today, I suggest that you watch her train later. Learn from her. She wins for a reason, find out why. For now, meet her gaze when you fight; if you only watch her blade she’ll have you on the ground in seconds.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, “Your father never let his emotions show in a fight; he knew they’d exhaust him in battle quicker than one hundred men. He bested Arthur Dayne for a reason, Stark.”

 

The glare of hers was gone. Her shoulders relaxed; she was no longer an animal newly freed from a cage, “You’re only half right, Lannister; I’m going to defeat her.”

 

He laughed, “Very well then, Stark. Prove me wrong.”

 

Arya headed towards Shara Seastar, “Are you ready to finish what we started, Captain?”

 

The older woman turned from Sansa’s side, “I am always ready.”

 

Sansa was soon at Jaime’s side, along with Shieron.

 

Shieron tilted his head, “May I ask what you told them?”

 

Sansa’s gaze was directed at her sister, “I told Shara to show no mercy,” she turned to Jaime, “And you ser, what wonderful advice did you give my sister?”

 

He couldn’t help but grin, “I told her to fight like your father, my lady.”

 

Her grin was nearly identical, “Good.”

 

Laughter met them both. Shieron wiped his eyes, “Now this is something I have been waiting to see.”

 

“Arya won’t win, Sansa. Not today.” _She spent all her rage on Shieron earlier. Her vision is clouded. She’ll do better tomorrow with a clearer head._

 

Sansa folded her hands, “No. But she’ll be determined. You told her to fight like father; she’ll do it. It will take some time, but I believe it.”

 

****** 

 _Focus on her eyes. Focus on her eyes_. _Fight like father. Show nothing and wait for a weak spot._

 

Arya’s blade met Shara’s. A loud clang from Nymeria. Dark Sister sang.

 

Earlier, Shara fought with a smile on her face. _Not anymore. Everything is blank. I cannot read her._ Their blades were screaming at one another. _Gods, what did Sansa tell her?_

 

The woman towered over her, and yet in all her armor, she seemed to practically fly with every step.

 

“Are you tired yet, Shara?” _One. Two._ Dark Sister nearly cleaved into her neck. _You’ll only get hair strands from me, not blood._

Arya aimed at her waist. _Fight like father. Fight like Lord Eddard Stark._

 

Instinct kicked in instead. All her energy went into the blow. _Too late._ Shara flitted behind, tripping her.

 

“Fuck..” despite wearing her own armor, her head throbbed. Nymeria was feet away from her. What seemed like a boulder now sat on her chest; the woman sat on her, grinning. Shara’s knees dug into arms. Dark Sister was at her throat.

 

Shara’s laughter rang out like bells, “Language, my girl. We are soldiers, not petty thieves.” Dark Sister returned to her scabbard. Shara got up.

 

_I hate her. I hate her stupid laugh. I hate her stupid sword. I hate her smile. I hate how she fights. I want to…_

 

Shara pulled her from the ground and started wiping the snow from Arya’s armor, “You did well, my lady.”

 

Arya nearly gasped, “I did?” She stumbled, regaining her ground.

 

“Indeed. Same time tomorrow?” The woman’s smile seemed to blind her.

 

 _I will win. I will.,_ “Of course.”

 

Shara’s grip was tight as they shook hands, “I cannot wait.”

 

The ground started to shake around them. _Screaming. No._ She looked at Shara.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Shara's eyes were nothing but sorrow, “Look up.”

 

Two pairs of wings and two monstrous bodies clouded the sky. _Dragons._ Their screaming bodies circled above them, then disappeared as soon as they came.

 

 _Jon? Are you there riding with her?_ She looked over at her sister.

 

Sansa’s eyes were closed and her lips were pursed into a solemn line, “Arya. Shara. Come here.”

 

The silence now was deafening. _Was it all a dream?_

 

Ser Jaime grimaced, “I’m sure that didn’t scare the people at all. Gods, Sansa, you were right.”

 

Sansa opened her eyes “Ser Jaime and Shieron. Please gather the Northern Lords and Lord Royce in the hall. I will meet with them shortly. Shara, will you gather the Captain of the Vale, and make sure your men are gathered, but calm.” Sansa’s delicate hand grabbed Arya’s, “Arya, go check on Bran. Find out from him who is with Daenerys Targaryen. If Jon is with her, you mustn’t rush out. According to Jaime, her dragons are unpredictable weapons of immense destruction.”

 

“But Sansa—”

 

Her elder sister’s hands cupped her face, “Listen to me, Arya. If Jon and Daenerys ride out together, only then are you to meet them. Wear your hood and cape. Do not charge at full speed with your horse. Go slow. Even if Jon is there, we do not know if she and her dragons can be controlled.”

 

“You’re letting me be the one to greet Jon?” _Don’t cry. Wolves don’t cry._

 

Sansa smiled, kissing the top of her sister’s forehead, “He’s missed you most of all, sweetling.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and Meetings. Jon and Dany's POV  
> #IveBeenWaitingForeverToWriteThisDamnReunionScene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting this chapter to be written so quickly. I blame the three giant coffees and a strong need to procrastinate on my studies. But you know what, I honestly couldn't wait to write this chapter. I may or may not have been listening to The Smiths' "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" on repeat while I was writing a certain reunion scene. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone!

Chapter 11: Love

The cold seaspray hit his face. Dragonstone may have been made of dragonglass and fire, but the very air stung his lungs. _I shall be home soon. Sansa, Arya, and Bran will be waiting for me._

 

He and Gendry Waters were sitting on the sand, watching the waves crashing into one another. Drogon and Rhaegal danced above the waves. _They're playing fighting. They’re still children despite their size_. His friend peeled an apple contentedly with a knife, eyes too focused for apple cutting.

 

Jon’s smile was a small one, “Something on your mind? Or Someone?”

 

Gendry’s eyes were pensive, “Arya. She’s at Winterfell.”

 

Jon frowned, “You never mentioned how you knew my little sister.” _He’s not Littlefinger or Tyrion. Stop that._

 

The man’s laugh was bright, loud even, “We were rescued by Yorick. He was going to take us to the Wall. She called herself Harry then. Yorick and I were the only ones who knew she wasn’t a boy. Hmph. Gods. She was my friend.”

 

 _There was something more, wasn’t there, Gendry?_ “Was your friend? What happened?”

 

“She helped me and Hot Pie escape Harranhal. She killed a man just so we could exit the gates of that piece of shit hell hole. _She saved us._ But I left her to join Melisandre, the Red Priestess,” Juice dribbled down Gendry’s chin as he chewed, “She told me not to go. I owe her an apology, I think. Don’t you?”

 

Jon laughed in what seemed a lifetime, “If you don’t, she’ll probably stab you.”

 

Gendry’s eyes were wistful, “Aye. That I’ve no doubt.”

 

_If we survive this war, Gendry, I promise you that we’ll be brothers like our fathers intended. I promise._

****** 

In all honesty, he wanted to kill Theon Greyjoy. Even after Sansa had told him how he had saved her and led her away from Ramsay and his dogs. _He betrayed Robb, my family. Winterfell fell into the Bolton's hands because of him._

 

But there he stood. He looked pathetic in a way. Yara and his fleets were nearly destroyed. _And yet there is a fire in his eyes. A fire I’ve not seen since before I left for the Wall_.

 

His blue eyes met Jon’s, “The men and I are leaving. Before I go, I want you to do something for me, Jon.”

 

He grimaced, “I suppose. What is it, then?” _I’ve already forgiven you._

 

Theon’s grip on his should be tight, “When you get back to Winterfell, tell Sansa ‘Thank you’.”

 

“For what? You saved her, Theon.”

 

The fire was gone in Greyjoy’s eyes, only a bittersweet sadness, “It wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t saved me first. She _saved me_ , Jon. At Winterfell…she called me by my name, reminded me of who I was…We were on the ramparts. Myranda had an arrow aimed at her head. She didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t beg. Do you know what she said, Jon?”

 

 _Sansa._ The words died in his throat. _Gods._

 

Theon smiled. The madness of a Greyjoy lingered in it, “She said ‘Let me die while there is still some part of me left.’ That’s when I knew who I was again. Who I needed to be. _If she could still be a Stark surrounded by flayed men, then I had to be a Greyjoy._ I failed and betrayed Robb, Jon. I knew then that I could never betray her. Killing Myranda resealed my pact with the Stark family. Yara knows. We will never betray House Stark or the North. Not again.”

 ******

Sleep was impossible tonight. Even with Daenerys by his side.

 

_She saved us._

_She killed a man…_

_I owe her an apology._

_She saved me._

_‘Let me die while there is still some part of me left.’_

_I have a needle of my own now._

_Winterfell is our home._

Their words haunted him, reminded him of something he should have known the moment Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick had entered Castle Black. _We have all changed. So much. I must accept it._

Daenerys lay in the crook of his arm, her small head resting on his chest. How strange it was to think so.

 

His lover’s laugh was a quiet one, “Can’t sleep?”

 

“Apparently you can't either,” his lips pressed softly to her forehead.

 

She sat up, a sad smile and violet eyes looked down at him, “Dare I ask what is going through that head of yours?”

 

“My sisters, believe it or not,” He propped himself up against the pillows. He could feel the boat gently rocking, the winding guiding its sails. The dragons were quiet, “Gendry and Theon know more about them now than I do.”

 

She laced her delicate fingers between his own. However tender her touch, her eyes were unwavering, “Men may face horrors on the battlefield, but women are the stronger sex…I..” she paused, her eyes wandered to the dark night outside their bedroom window.

 

“What is it, love?”

 

“We have to be so strong. All the time. Sometimes, we forget what it is to be weak, and yet despite all our strength and steel in our spines, men see us as flowers.”

 

“Are your flowers Drogon and Rhaegal then?”

 

She swatted at him, “Believe it or not, Jon Snow, I didn’t always have dragons. They weren’t born giant, fire breathers. They were so small. Even before them, I was seen as nothing but a weak woman, a wife to some great man.” She turned to him, “You know the rest. What I’m saying is you should never underestimate them. Appreciate them. They sound far nicer than my brother ever was.”

 

He kissed her shoulder, “You’ll meet them soon enough. Sansa’s been working on our wedding garments for weeks.”

 

She smiled at that, “Stark and Targaryen, who would’ve thought. We’ll be family, won’t we?”

 

“Yes. We will.”

 

She nestled back into his arms, “Sisters. A brother. I hope they’ll like me. You’ve warned me that it may take some time.”

 

“Aye. They’ll come to love you for who you are.”

 

“And what am I, Jon Snow?” she whispered into his chest.

 

“A strange blonde woman with two flying lizards.”

 

Her laugh was loud and rich for her tiny frame, “Says the man who has a rather large primordial wolf for a pet, was killed and brought back to life, and has asked said strange blonde woman with lizards for help to defeat the frozen undead.”

 

Jon cleared his throat, “Flying, fire-breathing lizards that you tend to ride on occasion.”

 

She started to giggle, “We’re a rather silly pair, aren’t we?”

 

He wrapped his arms around her, “Aye.” He chuckled, kissing the top of her head.

 

****** 

White Harbor was empty. No people, animals. Nothing. Even though Jon’s sister had written to them that she had started evacuation nearly a month ago, the barrenness of it all shocked her.

 

Varys was wrapped in light lilac furs, “Your sister is very efficient, Lord Stark.”

 

Tyrion merely gaped, “I was hoping there’d be someone to greet us, at the very least.”

 

Dany looked to Jon, “What do think? We could take Drogon and Rhaegal straight to Winterfell. Our men can follow behind.”

 

His smile was small, “Yes. I think that would be best. Shall I ride with you on Drogon?”

 

Dany’s eyes were filled with mischief, “I don’t know. Rhaegal rather likes you.”

 

He paled, “Daenerys.”

 

She laughed, “Very well, then. You’ll ride with me,” she turned to Varys and Tyrion, “My Lords, Lord Snow and I will be flying to Winterfell. I know our men are aching to be off the boat and marching to Winterfell as well.”

 

Varys nodded, “Of course, your Grace. I’ll inform Greyworm. Will you be taking Missandei with you? Or Lord Tyrion, perhaps?”

 

Dany’s reply was nothing if not formal, “You, Lord Tyrion, and Missandei will be riding on Rhaegal. Will that suffice?”

 

Tyrion’s smile was infectious, “This should be exciting. Don’t you agree, Varys?”

 

Lord Varys was paler than the snow, “Umm. Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll go inform Missandei and Greyworm.”

 ******

He wanted to land right in the Godswood, but he knew better than to ask Dany to something so reckless. They landed five miles away from Winterfell instead, away from the populace. Behind them lay miles of trees and wastelands of snow.

 

Tyrion was nearly giddy, “Rhaegal, you magnificient beast!” He slid off the dragon with ease.

 

Daenerys frowned, _Is this what I must do to keep your trust Lord Lannister? How can I know you are not conspiring with your siblings? Are they to be trusted? Truly? Are you?_

Jon lifted her off of Drogon, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

 

He smiled, “I know, but I wanted to.” _So stubborn, and yet…_

Lord Varys was the shade of Northern pines. Missandei helped him off of Rhaegal; Daenerys had taken Missandei on flights from time to time. Her translator had gotten used to Rhaegal’s whimsical flight patterns.

 

Drogon and Rhaegal curled up in the clearing, their breaths looking very nearly like smoke in the frigid air.  The flight had been a long one. _My children deserve their rest._

 

Horses’ hooves thundered upon the ground. _The Northern Lords. Jon’s men._

 

Dany expected a large group of tall, pale, sour-looking men to greet them. The only one with a sour look on his face was Ser Berric Dondarrion. On either side of him, a Dornish-looking woman wrapped in wool and furs, and a man of similar coloring. Behind them were five horses.

 

Ser Berric nodded at Jon, “I see the dragons, Jon. Where’s the rest of the army?”

 

Jon smirked, “They had to rest from seasickness, Ser Berric. They should be with us by the morrow. I’m surprised to see you here, though. Why are you not at Eastwatch?”

 

“That is a story for later tonight, milord,” Ser Berric got off his horse, “Your Grace,” he bowed towards her, “It is wonderful to see you again.”

 

She took his hand in hers, “Likewise, Ser Berric. There is no need to bow. It is too cold for such courtesies, I think.”

 

He grimaced, “I suppose…”

 

The two riders who came with him dismounted; the woman toward over Ser Berric. Her smile was a warm welcome, “Your Grace, I am Shara Seastar, captain of the Golden Company,” she tapped her companion’s shoulder, “This is my brother, Shieron.”

 

The man nodded, his eyes a hazy mismatched blue and green, “Khaleesi, it is an honor,” he turned to Jon, “Lady Sansa ordered us to take you to Winterfell. The ride should not be long, and she has promised us a proper Northern feast. Please, come.”

 ******

 

It was only five miles, but gods it felt like forever. _I could jump off of this horse and get there faster._ They were going at a pleasant enough pace, but the cold bit at his face and they were waiting for him.

 

_Arya. Bran. Sansa. Just a few more minutes I swear._

 

“You’ll be there soon enough, bastard.” Tyron rode alongside him, his smile still present from the dragon ride.

 

“Thank you for the reassurance, dwarf,” he sighed, “I thought the Golden Company’s captain’s name was Strickland, not Seastar.”

 

“As did I, but Ser Berric did promise us a story, didn’t he?” Tyrion lowered his voice, “You aren’t worried, are you? About Sansa?”

 

Shieron was quietly conversing with Varys. His sister was talking animatedly with Dany and Missandei; he could hear her honeyed voice rich with laughter. His love laughed alongside her, even Missandei was smiling, “I left her in charge of the North. That I do not regret doing. What I do regret is not killing Lord Baelish before I left for Dragonstone.”

 

Tyrion’s smile had softened, “You’re underestimating her again, Snow. Do you really think King’s Landing was a paradise for your sister? When my nephew wasn’t having his Kingsguard beat her, my sweet sister was trying to play with her mind. She survived King’s Landing for years.”

 

Her voice echoed in his mind, _No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone,_ Jon’s usual frown deepened, “I know. She deserved so much better.”

 

“Stop brooding so much, Snow! You are heading back to your home to reunite with your family. Enjoy those brief moments before the darkness sets in, will you? You Starks are so intent on Winter coming that you forget to enjoy yourself.”

 

“And you drink and whore yourself into a stupor, as I recall, Lannister.”

 

The dwarf laughed at this remark, “At least I was happy doing it. Look, Winterfell is just before us, Jon. The Vale Army and Golden Company are there to greet us as well.”

 

 _Home._ Snow-covered spires. Hundreds of tents stood outside of Winterfell’s gates. A cloaked rider atop a black horse trotted past the tents towards their company. The horse’s steps were sure-footed. The rider was a small thing, their cloak lined with a black fur and the pommel of their sword peaked out from beneath.

 

He pressed his own steed to go faster.

 

The rider matched his pace.

 

He could hear Dany and Tyrion call after him, but it made no difference. _Please, please, please be real._

 

They were opposite each other now, not even ten feet. The rider dismounted.

 

The pommel of their sword was a wolf.

 

Jon nearly choked on his words, “Show yourself. Are you one of Sansa’s men?”

 

The hood of her cloak fell on her shoulders. Her brown hair was shorter now, jutting past her chin. Brown leather armor. _She dresses just like Robb now,_ "Arya!" When did he dismount? He did not care. He could not run fast enough to his sister’s arms.

 

She slammed herself into his chest, sobbing, “Jon!”

 

He lifted her chin to meet his gaze, “You've cut your hair."

 

"So did you."

 

"I love it. Never change it, dearest," he wiped the tears from her eyes, "Since when do you cry?"

 

She laughed, “Shut up. So are you!” her gloves wiped away. His tears, “Don’t let go, Jon. Don’t you dare! I couldn’t bear it.” She buried her face in his neck.

 

“Never, Arya. Never again.” How had it been so long? It was just yesterday that he gifted her Needle and held her in his arms, "It is a dream, isn't it?"

 

"Our dreams were never this happy, Jon."

 

 


	12. Chapter 12: Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dragons die, love. Everything dies in the end. We can use magic, sacrifice, love, and gold to prolong our lives, but it is in vain. Death comes for all. Even the dragons."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shieron's point of view. Hope you lovely people enjoy a chapter in an OC's perspective. I loved writing in his perspective. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the late posting! You know the whole teaching, grading, writing papers thing had me so busy! I'm just glad I could get this out and ready for you. :)

Chapter 12: Eyes

_“Dragons die, love. Everything dies in the end. We can use magic, sacrifice, love, and gold to prolong our lives, but it is in vain. Death comes for all. Even the dragons,” Mama’s eyes were the earth and sea. So much green and blue. Just like his._

_They sat on the cold stone floor in front of the fireplace; Tarkas could not rage at them for trying to stay warm after Mama gave him a sleeping draught. They could eat and do as they liked when he slumbered, “Mama?”_

_“Yes, sweetling?”_

_“Will Tarkas die? Just like the dragons?” He climbed into her lap, listening to her heart’s beat, “Won’t he, mama?”_

_Her ivory smile was sweet and sad, “No. Tarkas will not die like the dragons, but he will die.”_

_“How, Mama?”_

_Her laugh was a soft swell of the ocean waves. She turned him to face her. Her delicately strong mahogany hand placed gently on his chest, “The dragons are dead now, but they will return. First, in your heart. The dragons cannot be if we do not believe in ourselves, in the Blackfyres and Seastars.”_

_Only Tarkas didn’t die. Mama did. That spring, in her sleep. Tarkas’ red eyes and white hair haunted him._   He is white like a ghost, like death _._

_And still, every night, Tarkas was given his sleeping draught. Mama was not there. His heart ached. He could not sit in her lap as she told him dreams of suns, stars, spears, wolves, lions, and dragons._

_So instead, he filled the ever-aching wound in his chest with his grandmother’s books. His mother’s._

_They filled him with smells and sounds and dreams. Dreams that let him see far and deep and wide. Mists to surround him, protect him. Smoke and dreams from the old times. Mama had told him that the Old times, the Before times were full of wonder and horror. Dragons littered the skies, magic soared, but people drowned in chains, their backs covered in scars and blood._

_But the people of the Old Before times used their magic for ill. Enslaving, killing, conquering. Fire and Blood. And they were destroyed for it._

_His mother’s words, the Old Before tongue left his mouth, the same ones his grandmother had told her, and her mother before._ “Heal and Protect, Bind and Flourish, Never Harm."

 

_Tarkas became crueler as the days went by. Glares became harsh words. Those words became rages. The rages became the ragged and bloody tears on his back._

_Tarkas died on the boy’s 9 th name day. The boy smile was bittersweet as his uncle choked on his cup of wine. Tears of Lys wasn’t the only way to kill a man. Tarkas would never harm him again._

_He knew that the summer heat would bring the smell Tarkas rotting body to the people outside. As soon as they knew, they would come for him. Slavers, robbers. Tarkas did not have much, but what he had, if they knew, would be more than its weight in gold._

_The grimoires of his family. Three of them. So small, bound in the leather of dragon’s underbelly. Red and black, cream and gold, green. He put them in his satchel. Mama’s necklace, the only thing left besides the grimoires, a small silver pendant with an emerald and a sapphire embracing one another. He tied the leather cord about his neck, letting the pendant sit comfortably under his worn linen shirt. There was enough coin for a week’s worth of food. Beyond that…_

_He whispered under his breath, “The dragons will be reborn. They will.”_

_*******_

_He had been performing magic tricks in the streets of Braavos when he sensed it. Another dragon. He stopped mid-show, his bag slung over his shoulders, the cries of customers behind him._

_Was it Viserys and his sister? He had heard they were wandering Essos for a handful of years. The boy would only a few years younger than him now. He had heard they looked just like the masters from the Old Before time, pale, silver of hair with violet eyes. He began to tremble as he walked passed vendors, looking anywhere and everywhere for them._

_His mother’s words raced through his mind, Heal and Protect, Bind and Flourish, Never Harm._

_Would they know him? If so, would they come together? The wars were over, surely, they’d see the goodness that would come from their friendship. Surely._

_The girl ran into him like a raging aurochs. For a moment he could not breathe._

_Her hair was a messy brown braid, dusty from their encounter. Dornish, perhaps._

_But her eyes. They looked right into his. Dark enough to be mistaken for Dornish black. No. Indigo. The starless night sky._

_Her smile was sweet, desperate almost, “I’ve dreamed of you, brother,” her arms wrapped around his, “I’ve dreamed of you for so long. You are here with me at last.” Her tears soaked his now dusty tunic._

_He wrapped his arms around her. She smelled of honey and smoke, “I’m here, sister. We can finally prepare.”_

_“Prepare? For what?”_

_“To go home,” his voice cracked._

_“Home.” She smiled, “Yes, we can go home.”_

_“Shara! There you are! You cannot run off like that,” a woman, pale with lilac eyes. Hair the deepest ink. Like the girl, they wore sturdy linen dresses, “What are you---who is this boy?”_

_The girl looked up at the woman, “My brother, mama. He is my brother.”_

_The woman’s eyes squinted at him, “What is your name, child?”_

_He wavered, “Blackfyre, milady,” he pulled his mother’s necklace from his tunic, “And Seastar. Mama was a Seastar also.” The emerald and sapphire gleamed in the silver pendant._

_Her hands were soft. Neither of them worked a day in their life, “Your first name, child?” her hand cupped his chin._

_“Martouf, milady.”_

_She smiled, “It is very good to meet you Martouf. I am Mirei Sand. This is my daughter, Shara Sand.”_

_“I gave you my real name. Why do you not give me yours?”_

_Her eyes widened in shock at his words. She knelt down beside he and Shara, “Voices carry, Martouf. Our names carry more weight here. If you come with us to meet our Captain Harry, we will tell you. It is safe with him and his men. I think that he would very much like to meet you.”_

                                                                                                            *******

Shara and Arya were off giving Daenerys and Jon updates on their situation. No doubt Lord Snow would be bombarded by his fellow lords.

 

His room was filled with dried herbs, poultices, incense. His desk was covered in parchment, quills, a pot of newly made ink, and a stone dish with the feather of a raven, pine needles, and a clip of Ghost’s fur slowly burning to ash. He had never seen a pine tree before. Now he could never get enough of their scent.

 

He wrote the spell with utmost care every time. Tearing it from the parchment, his family words came to his lips once more, “Heal and Protect, Bind and Flourish, never harm.” Parchment burned alongside feather, pine, and fur.

 

“You’re very lucky I was able to get that hair from Ghost; he hates being brushed.” Lady Sansa  glided from her chair to looking over his shoulder, “Martouf?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Is this a sacrifice? To protect Winterfell?” He barely detected the worried tremble in her cool tone.

 

“A spell, milady. Nothing more. I do not sacrifice to any gods. My spells are intentions, wishes for the world and its people. The earth supplies me with what I need wherever my sister and I go,” He turned to face her, “The spell is to bind and calm the dragons, camouflaging them from our people. They’ll look like sleeping rocks. The clearing was the perfect spot to do so. They will not attack anyone as long as I am able to perform this spell and ceremony.”

 

“Will _she_ know?” her eyes lingered on the stone bowl’s burning contents, “She may misinterpret it as something harmful.”

 

His large hand encompassed her delicate one, “Her dragons have flown all the way from Dragonstone to Winterfell. She’ll think them exhausted, in need of a rest. This will ensure that they do.”

 

Her hand gently squeezed his, “Thank you. So, what did you think of _them_?”

 

“My sister and I may be dragons ourselves, but I think we will leave that task of riding them to Daenerys and your cousin.”

 

Sansa sighed, “A wise move I think.”

 

His eyes met hers once more, “You’re stalling, milady.”

 

She let go of his hand, “Stalling? Whatever do you mean?”

 

“Meeting her. Reuniting with your brother. As the eldest sister, it is Northern custom to dress your brother’s bride, readying her for the wedding, no?” _She does not want to. She knows she must._

 

He followed her to the fireplace, sitting opposite her. Her hands were folded neatly as befitting a lady, but he could feel her urge to wring her hands.

 

Her sigh was a soft breeze ready for spring, “What do you think of this marriage, Martouf Blackfyre? Do not lie to me. What do you feel about it?”

 

The fire crackled, “Theoretically, one could say it binds the North to her. But this is a love match, so it could be more than politics, I suppose. But…he is a dragon. If it is found out, there could be trouble. I think the sooner they are wed and off fighting beyond the Wall, the better. They cannot hear gossip or truth from that location.”

 

“The only people I have ever known to marry for love have all died,” Sansa’s eyes were on the fire, “When I had first found out I began plotting, trying to find a way to cement the Lords’ loyalty to him should they find out of his parentage. I was never close to him growing up. Marrying him meant that not only the North would be secure, but the Vale as well. Maybe even the Riverlands in time. My mother and father did not marry for love. They barely knew each other. There was the ceremony, the bedding. In the morning my father left to fight alongside Robert Baratheon. When he returned a year later, he was welcomed with a child,” she closed her eyes, “They built their love over years. Stone by stone. I told myself that, if need be, I could learn to love Jon just as mother loved father. Over time. Stone by stone. Children would not just secure our hold over Winterfell, but it could have brought us closer, I suppose.”

 

Her pale face glowed in the firelight, “My lady. He has made his decision. All we can do is ensure the pair’s survival.”

 

Sansa rose from the chair, “I’m stalling, Martouf.”

 

He laughed, “Well then, put on your Lady’s face, and do your duties then“ he offered his arm, “If you should like, I will be with you the entire time.”

 

Sansa Stark may have been a lady, but her grin was that of a mischievous wolf. Her arm slipped into his, “I should like that very much, Martouf.”

 

His smile was inescapable, “As would I, milady. As would I.”

 

                                                                                                                     ******* 

He had expected her brother to be much taller, to be honest. _Cousin,_ he reminded himself, _he is her cousin and a dragon_. _My brother, though he knows it not._ Still, even the Targaryen men were known for their tall slender frames and Jon Snow was short, broad-shouldered, and well-muscled. Sansa inherited her height from her father and mother.

 

He grinned at Lord Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. _He is taller than her, and his body is built for fighting. Why should it matter?_ He looked at the Targaryen woman, busy in talk with her lover, _she holds herself so well, but she is so small. Her dragons are her swords. I pray she uses them wisely and well._

 

Although Arya’s smiles for her brother and his beloved seemed genuine, her eyes were just as sharp and observant as a hawk’s. It was no wonder to him then, that Shara took such a keen interest in her. 

 

Her hands were on Bran’s chair. Her brother was blank eyed, calm as always. Or was it sedated? He had talked to the boy a few times and his words were always as clouded and hazy as fog.

 

 Sansa took a deep breath, “Putting on my Lady’s face, eh? I have dreaded this moment; so many things could happen, and I am afraid of every single one of them.”

 

He let go of her arm, “However frightened you are, you will handle whatever comes your way with cunning and tact. You know what is best, milady. I have faith in you. So does my sister, the Northern Lords, the Vale, its army, the Golden Company. As does your little sister. No one doubts your abilities or your strength. Come, do your duties, and I shall do mine.”

 

The snow fell about them steadily. Flakes landed in her auburn hair like lovers’ kisses. She glided across the courtyard to her cousin and his bride as if on ice.

 

He followed her, a few paces behind. He was no Lord, that he knew, and dared not stand next to such a Lady in front her own brother, Daenerys, and her cohorts.


	13. Chapter 13: Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise and fall. Unlikely bonds are formed, while others teeter on the edge of being broken. *Cues the ominous and mysterious background music*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't die, okay. Grad school reared its ugly head at me. And I was teaching. And going to conferences. Summer was insane. This semester has been crazy since day one. So much grading, so many conferences. I need a nap. Anyone else need a nap? Ugh. Okay, done bitching about the real world. Promise!
> 
> This chapter was been sitting in my computer for ages, and I did not have the time to edit and upload. Until today. Today has been a very good day. This chapter showcases my skill (or lack thereof) of writing fight scenes. Also, imaginary bonus points if you can guess what shows influenced this chapter's fight scene! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this chapter. And don't worry, we're going to get more answers and POV's (like Jon and Danny and Sam) next chapter. I promise!

Chapter 13: Brother

_It was warm in the tower. The sun never left the sky. She was always warm. Not like home. Home was cold and wet. Nothing but cold and wet stone. Here with Lady and Auntie, things were so nice and warm. Lemon trees were everywhere. She made a song just about lemon trees for Baby this morning. She still found herself humming the words to her doll, Jaena,_

_“Lemon tree, oh lemon tree. You make my sweets so sweet. But you make me pucker if you are not a sweeeeeettttt!!!!” Jaena wore yellow robes, just like lemons and Uncle._

_“Will you sing to him, love? Sing for our baby?” the little girl gazed into the woman’s dark brown eyes. She was so pale. A ghost, she almost thought. A nice ghost. So small, smaller than even Mama, “I think he would like a happy song, don’t you, Mouse?”_

_Mouse. Brown Mouse. That is her name now. Only Lady gets to call her that. She says it so kindly. Almost like Mama sounds, “What song? Mama only sings sad songs.”_

_The young woman was propped up by many pillows, her ankles swollen, one hand resting on a very large belly, the other patted the spot on the bed next to her, “Come to me, love, and I’ll teach you all the happy ones. We’ll sing them together, won’t we?”_

_Lady was so warm. Mouse rested her dark curly head on Lady’s breast. Lady’s fingers were soft through her curls, “Such curls. Just like mine, little Mouse. Will our baby have curls like us?”_

_Mouse giggled, “Yes! Dark and brown. They will be the prettiest. He is going to be so pretty, Lady! Just like you.”_

_Lady’s kisses were butterflies, “You are pretty, my Little Mouse.”_

_Mouse frowned, “No. Grandpa says I’m stinky. And Papa doesn’t like me,” her small fingers wiped Lady’s eyes, “Don’t cry, Lady. I love you so much. So, so, so much. Let’s sing happy songs together, for baby. Please don’t cry.”_

_“I love you, my little Mouse. Auntie and I love you so much our hearts will burst.  You are sweet, brave, kind, and strong, and so full of love. Baby loves you too,” Her smile sang of sorrow, “Now, shall we sing happy songs? We have lots of happy songs where I am from.”_

_“Yes!”_

_Lady’s lips pursed. She smiled, so small and sweetly, “We shall sing baby ‘The Honeysuckle and the Hazel Tree’. Yes? It is about two people who love each other so much, no matter what.”_

_Mouse clapped excitedly, “Oh yes. Baby will be so happy.”_

 ******* 

Lyanna Stark’s stone face haunted her. Shara’s long fingers gently cupped the statue’s worn chin. _You should be smiling, my Lady. You always smiled, even as you lay dying._ _Such sorrowful stone eyes._ Hot tears burned her face in the winter cold of the crypts.

 

She felt his presence. Cold. Lonely. So sad. _Sad. Just like Him._

 

Jon’s voice quietly echoed, “I take it you knew my aunt?”

 

Shara turned, facing him, “Yes. My aunt and I took care of her while she stayed in Dorne. She was a mother to me. We _needed_ one another.”

 

Jon wore dark furs. He seemed almost swallowed up by furs and armor. _He looks so much like her. All but his eyes and his sorrows. Those are…_ ”Father rarely talked about her. Even when he mentioned her, it was so sorrowful,” he paused, his eyes searching her own, “What was she like?”

 

She chest swelled with hope, “Kind. Sweet. Pure. Innocent. Such kindness. Even when sadness tore at her heart, a smile was on her lips. She taught me to sing only happy songs. She would tell me stories about the North and her family,” Shara took both his hands, “I wish you knew her. Truly. She loved you so much, with every ounce of her heart.”

 

He cocked his head, “She knew my mother?”

 

“Yes. As did I. We were there when you were born. We sang to you while you were in your mother’s belly. We sang you every happy song we knew.”

 

“Really.”

 

She chuckled “Oh yes. I used to perform plays for you with my dolls. You kicked inside your mama’s belly so whenever my dolls were fighting.”

 

His smile was small, but she relished it, “Of course I did. What was I like as a baby?”

 

“You really want to know?”

 

“Yes. I do.”

 

“As you wish, my lord,” she let go of his hands, “You came into this world looking like someone not only pissed in your ale, but that you were going to take a shite at any moment. Your fists were always clenched.”

 

He sighed, “Good to know that nothing’s changed about me.”

 

Shara laughed, “I have seen you smile. Some things have changed. You were a good baby, my lord. You never fussed.”

 

The quiet between them filled the room. _Gods what will he say? How will I answer him?_

“You knew my mother?”

 

“Oh yes, my lord.”

 

He searched her eyes desperately, “Before he died, my father promised to tell me who my mother was.”

 

 _Of course he did._ “She was a pretty little thing. Adventurous and shy. Brave beyond belief and yet so afraid of what was to come. She was a woman of action but was forced to wait for her own death. So full of love, and yet no man truly loved her for who she truly was. She was naïve, selfish, and acted only with her heart. And yet she gave so freely, so willingly. She lost so much, and gave up everything, including her own life, just to bring you into this world. She loved me even when everything that defined me was taken away. Her laugh was the hearty bells of winter snow, and her embrace was the warmest of suns… Gods, I miss her,” she met his gaze, “It is so sad to know that I am the only one left who remembers your mother and sweet Lyanna,” Her hand cupped his chin. _So much like his mother’s,_ “Hold your family close, my lord. Do not take them for granted. They love you dearly. They do right by you, even if you do not think it.”

 

She walked back to Lyanna’s statue, placing a white raven’s feather by the statue’s feet, “So many men idealized her, making her into a song. They never _knew_ her. They never knew her faults, only what they wanted from her, what they believed she was. How can you truly love someone if you do not know them? I wonder.”

 

His gloved hand covered her own, “What was her name?”

 

Her eyes watered, “You know her name, Lord Stark.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“Oh yes. You’ve known her name for as long as you’ve been alive,” she drew her cloak closer to her.

 

Impatience lined his voice, “Are Blackfyres and Seastars always so cryptic?”

 

Shara laughed, “The same could be said of you Starks and Targaryens. Do not worry, my lord; My brother and I will make sure the darkness in all our hearts shall be gone for a few hours soon enough.”

 

_Another smile. Is it for me, sweet babe? You will always be that for me. Do you remember how I rocked you to sleep in my arms, singing you sweet songs of honeysuckles and lemon trees?_

 

“Does that mean you’re going to sing at my wedding?” He smirked, “Sansa says you and your brother are quite talented.”

 

She offered her arm to him, “Only the best and happiest songs for you and your bride.”

 

He took it, smiling as they headed out of the crypts, “Thank you.”

 

********

 

The wind bit harshly at her face. The training yard was empty. All the soldiers trained outside of the castle now. Sansa thought it best that all three armies learnt from each other. Build trust. _Gather information. Anything useful._

 

“I can’t believe she’s making us wait a week!” Arya polished Nymeria with a furious swirl, “Tormund and Ser Berric told them both of the Ice Dragon. You’d think that’d be enough to head North right away. I cannot believe _they both_ wanted to wait. Even after Sansa, the Lords, Tormund, Ser Berric, _and_ everybody told them. This _love_ has made them both stupid.”

 

Ser Jaime smirked, his emerald eyes knew all too well the reasoning for a queen’s actions, “She wants her army here to witness her wedding and submission of the North in all its glory. Kings and Queens do stupid things like that. Well, _most_ Kings and Queens. Some are wise. And I can tell you from first-hand experience, lovers do the stupidest of things. Just wait your turn; I’m sure you’ll find someone to do stupid things with as well.”

 

“Haha. You’re a funny man, Lannister. A very funny man.”

 

He snorted, “Humor is my little brother’s job, but he’s too preoccupied with dealing with his queen’s every whim. But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

 

Shara rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, “It gives Sansa more time to evacuate your people, little sister. The clothes are finished, and the food all but needs be cooked. By the time her armies arrive, there will be only soldiers and a few nobles to witness it.”

 

Arya looked up at her, smiling, “At least the people will have a chance.” She couldn’t help but think of Tannen, Gilly, and Little Sam. _Such sweet faces. They cannot, no their eyes will not be shut by the Night King. I will not allow it_. We will not allow it.

 

Jamie leaned against one of the training dummies, “It was smart of you and your sister to split the grain supply among the people. It was good of the Lords Royce and Glover to agree to take them to the Vale and the Twins,“ he smirked, “I wonder why the Frey widows were so enthusiastic about it.”

 

Arya grinned, “Well, I’d be rather happy too if I got the Twins all to myself. It might be a touch lonely. I’m sure our people will keep them company.”

 

Arya placed Nymeria on the wooden table beside her. She started to stretch her limbs. _I must be ready for this fight. Will Jon be watching? Gods be good if he is. I want him to see me. To see how good I’ve become._

She remembered the look he gave her when he realized she was no longer wearing Needle. How dark his eyes became when she told him how Sansa gave her Nymeria.

 

_“Needle’s for killing in warm weather. She’ll snap in two against a wight. Nymeria’s coated in dragonglass. Sansa was helping me Jon, just like you.”_

 

_“Helping? Right.” He stalked off from their table, leaving a half-drunken ale and a trail of…of…jealousy? No. Not that. He knows Sansa’s good at this. He left the North to her. Why is he mad?_

“Stark!” Jaime's voice echoed, “Stark! Are you ready?”

 

Her smile shocked him, “Yes, Ser Jaime. I’m ready,” She looked to Shara, “How about you? We’ve practiced enough? Let’s put on a real fight, shall we?”

 

Seastar’s smile was exuberant, “Oh yes. Let us show them what it means to fight to the finish!”

 

Jaime raised his eyebrow at her, “Did you just call me ‘Ser’? Gods, this should be good.”

 

Sansa brought Jon and Daenerys to watch. They stood on the balcony. Jon’s eyes were so easy to read; concerned, sad, something else. It’s as almost as if… _I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a killer and he knows it. It kills him inside to know it. But he must accept it._ The dragon queen’s eyes spoke differently. She was expecting something, and at the same time was not excited. _She’s seen this before. So many times. She can’t be bothered, but I’m not here to impress her._ Jaime Lannister was at the other end of the training yard with Shieron. _They are ready. They feel the electricity. As if they want to join in but won’t. Good._

 

She couldn’t read her sister. Her eyes were clouded in ice and courtesy, her lips a straight and indifferent line. And yet…

 

Shara approached with quick, light steps. _Like a cat_ , “Are you ready, Little Sister?”

 

 _Little Sister. I’m already used to her calling me that. She is so kind to me, even when we train. Yet I know she will not make this easy._ Arya smiled, “I think so. I’ve watched you train long enough.”

 

Shara’s dark eyes danced, “And I you. Let us begin.”

 

Arya let out a maddening giggle, “Let’s.”

 

The cold winter wind bit her cheeks, _Remember your mask,_ Lannister’s voice echoed inside of her,  _Betray nothing. Focus on your target, not your emotions._

Dark Sister met Nymeria in a cold embrace. Their blades danced. Winter’s blinding light gleamed off of their blades. Their steel melody drowned out the cold chill of Winterfell.

 

 _So beautiful. The song of steel._ Arya dodged Dark Sister’s blow. _The song of Winterfell flows through my wolf blood. I am Ned Stark’s daughter._

Shara’s eyes were a mystery. They betrayed nothing. Her face was as much stone as her own. She was nearly as tall as Brienne, and yet carried none of her heft. They had danced near the weapons stand now.

 

_I could grab a shield or a mace. Blindside her. Reach, damn you._

 

Too late. Dark Sister was at her throat, “I must admit, I thought to do the same thing as well.”

 

 _Maybe not…_ Arya smiled, “You’re good, Shara,” She was flying. She leapt onto the edge of the stand, and onto Dark Sister’s blade, “But I think I have the higher ground” Nymeria’s point hovered beneath Shara’s aquiline nose. 

 

Shara’s arm did not waver under Arya’s weight. She chuckled, “You are right. But alas, one must remember that good steel and strong arms are not the only weapon a soldier has.” Shara’s smile opened wide, white teeth bit down on Nymeria’s blade Shara slowly tipped her head upwards.

 

 _Seven fucking hells_. Arya was on the ground. Nymeria and Dark Sister both out of reach for either woman. Shara spit out blood, scarlet on snow. Both stumbled towards the wooden shields.

 

Splinters flew. _She is going to overpower me._ Shara came at her, swing after swing. Shield-bashing her own shield into it broke into pieces. Arya was in a corner, the side of Shara’s shield at her throat.

 

A voice cried out. _Jon._

 

“No.” _Sansa._

 

Shara smiled, “Is it over, Arya?”

 

Arya’s grin was wild, “Feet, _Big_ Sister.” _Like rushing water._  Her kick was swift, and Shara was on her back.

 

Arya pounced on top of the woman. Shields were gone. Their swords out of reach. It was now woman to woman. Fists, legs, teeth. _My entire body is a weapon, is it Shara? Then I shall use it_.

 

Shara headbutted her. Her world spun, but not for long. Her arms blocked Shara’s kicks and punches. Over and over and over again. The wind swirled round them in the dance. _The dance of death. The dance of the battlefield. This is how it should be._ Her very blood sang a song of sweet violence. She kneed Shara in the gut. The woman landed a punch to Arya’s left cheek.

 

Both fell to their knees.

 

How long was the dance? _Ages, and yet it could go on forever._

 

Blood. Sweat. Arya felt her left eye swell shut. Shara grabbed her gut. The stayed there for only minutes, but the silent wind made it feel the two warriors were frozen in eternity.

 

Shara took hold of both Arya’s arms. Arya pressed her forehead against her comrade’s, “Who wins?”

 

Shara poked her in the arm, “I win.” Her giggle was contagious.

 

Arya returned the poke with a pinch, “No. I win.”

 

The older woman laughed, “Cheater.”  They both helped each other up, not letting go for fear they would both fall out of exhaustion.

 

A slow clap echoed in the air. Arya’s smile was bright enough to light the dark. _Jon._

 

Shara whispered, “Look up, little sister. See who congratulates you.”

 

Jaime Lannister’s eyes were gleaming. His usual smirk was nothing if not congratulatory. _He’s proud of me. A fucking Lannister is proud of me._ He walked over to them.

 

His chest swelled with pride, “I can honestly say, Stark, that you would make your father proud. I know it means nothing coming from a Lannister, but…I’ve never saw any better fighters than you two.”

 

She smiled, “Thank you…Ser Jaime. It actually means quite a lot. Thank you.”

 

His smile. It was not the prideful thing he usually wore but kind, almost paternal. He looked up to the balcony, “You had the rest of your audience in suspense. Well, all but one. Take a look.”

 

She looked to the balcony. Daenerys’ eyes were open, as was her mouth. Was she not used to seeing women fight? The clapping still continued.

 

Not Jon. His arm linked with his bride. His eyes were…worried? Worried and dark. He frowned. _Why are you not proud of me, brother? Cousin. You should never have worried._

 

Sansa. Arya’s grin widened. Her sister’s applause was loud and steady. Her blue eyes were calm and proud. A small smile that told her everything she needed to know. _She knew how good I was going to be. How good I am now. That’s why she had Jaime train me. That’s why she told Shara to show no mercy. She knows I am good enough. Just like Father and Robb and Jon._ _No. She knows that I am better. I am better than them._

 

Sansa's voice was calm, congratulatory, “I don’t think I’ve seen such a glorious fight between two soldiers in my entire life. Have you, Ser Jaime?”

 

He laughed, “No, my lady. And I’ve seen quite a few. What form of reward do you think these fine soldiers should receive? Gold? Silver? A banquet?” He teased.

 

Sansa laughed, “Commander Seastar. _Commander_ Stark. I think some Northern Ale and a good roast sounds sufficient, no?”

 

 _Commander? I am a commander now. Gods be good, I have earned this._ Arya smiled at her, “I would like nothing better.” She looked to Shara, “I think it best that we share it, no? I can think of no better soldier and friend to share it with, Big Sister.”

 

Shara’s eyes gleamed, “I would like that very much.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
